


What We Stand For

by Luthien17



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Other, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-08-13 14:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20175574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien17/pseuds/Luthien17
Summary: The musketeers are kidnapped and forced to be pawns in a game they don't want to participate in, not knowing what power they are up against. And they soon realize that more than just their values are put on trial.





	1. The Bar Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All rights belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC.
> 
> Author's note: No, this is not the multi chaptered story I promised (I'm still working on my current one, which is a Sequel to 'To New Shores'). This one is a multi chaptered story though.
> 
> This was written about two years ago, and I found it on my computer. I've almost forgotten I wrote this once. I roughly worked over it, but I believe it's noticeable that this was written in early 2017 where I had just gotten started in writing. It's not that original and a little cliché. Still, if you're in for a little Adventure / h/c story with all four involved (but a slight focus on Athos and especially Aramis, if I recall correctly) give it a try. I thought I spent too much time writing this back then to just let it rot on my computer. Enjoy.

**Chapter 1: The Bar Fight**

„I cannot believe it. I thought you had learned your lesson, but clearly, I was mistaken."

Tréville glowed with anger, with his hands on his desk and his eyes resting furiously on the three men standing in front of him.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis all stood side by side, an anxious d'Artagnan a little further on the left, eyes burning holes into the ground. The three men Tréville was so angry with didn't make a sound.

"Arguing with the red guard isn't news for me, I've received multiple reports about it over the last few years. But fighting ten of them at once? Two of them won't be able to do their duty because of this brawl for at least a week."

Tréville took in a deep breath and focused on the three of them again.

"So, you'd better have a good reason for this."

The captain saw d'Artagnan gulping, but the Gascon knew Tréville's anger wasn't directed at him. Because he hadn't participated in this particular fight between the three mature musketeers and ten red guards last night at a tavern.

Tréville's gaze wandered over his three seasoned soldiers. Porthos stood up straight, arms folded in front of his chest and biting his lip nervously. He sported a black eye as well, but he didn't seem to have a good answer for his captain.

Aramis was a picture of pure innocence, his hat pulled down as far as possible so that his eyes were plunged into shadows. His hands were folded behind his back and he still showed off a deep bruise on the right side of his face across his jaw line, his body nervously rocking back and forth.

Athos stared blankly at Tréville, his face not giving away anything. His fingers were closed around his weapon belt and he seemed to wait until one of the others said something.

"With all respect, Sir, we just did our job."

That was Porthos' voice.

Tréville rounded his desk and stopped in front of the tall musketeer.

"Is that so? What was the occasion that you needed to step into so vigorously?"

Porthos stared at his captain, at a loss of what to say.

"Defending the honor of his majesty the King," Aramis chipped in, coming to his friend's aid, with a face that spoke of upright honesty.

Tréville looked at the marksman and raised an eyebrow, knowing his soldier's acting skills too well.

"Really? Are you sure they just didn't lose a bitter word about one of your latest amorous conquests?"

Honest and pure betrayal was written over Aramis' face for a second, but then he clasped his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture.

"I'm wounded, captain. I expected you to know me better than to lose my temper over such little things."

Tréville snorted.

"Yes, no idea how that came to my mind," he said with a sarcastic tone in his voice. "Anyway, alright. What did they say?"

Porthos, nowhere near as good an actor as Aramis, raised his voice.

"Called him an immature child. Incapable of ruling the country, and having terrible judgment."

Tréville huffed a weak laughter as an answer, absolutely not buying the story. The red guards had many things to say about the king, but those weren't things they would say to trigger the wrath of his musketeers.

"They cannot insult someone with the truth, and you gentlemen know that. Well, at least partially the truth."

The three musketeers all looked at the captain with a mixture of shock and amusement. Even Athos' mouth twitched as he tried to suppress an amused smile.

Tréville swallowed down the rest of the sentence quickly and glared at his men with an ice-cold expression.

"I never said such things officially."

The three of them nodded briefly, and Tréville knew they would never tell on him.

Tréville sighed and ran a hand over his face, looking desperately at Athos.

"Anything to add?"

The former nobleman shook his head slightly.

"Alright. D'Artagnan? Clear this up, please. We still have jobs to do and you three…" he eyed the three named men angrily, "…are just wasting time."

D'Artagnan hesitated, looking at Athos as if waiting for confirmation to tell the truth.

Athos gestured him to spill all of it freely, and Aramis and Porthos groaned.

The Gascon waited for another second, before he stood up straight and took in a deep breath.

"Long version or short version?"

"Start with the short one, please."

"Aramis needed to show off his skills with the pistol, Porthos had money riding on it, and Athos has a lack of compassion for people who feel threatened."

Tréville opened his mouth in an attempt to reprimand his musketeers, but he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"I guess I'll need the long version."

D'Artagnan leaned against the wall, clearly uncomfortable with telling the whole story.

"Well, we went out to enjoy the evening. And the red guards happened to be there as well. It started off friendly, everybody was minding their own businesses. Until…"

"Until one of them started waving with his pistol and more or less accidentally happened to hit Athos' bottle", Porthos interrupted, as if he wanted to make sure d'Artagnan was telling the truth.

Tréville raised his hand to shush the musketeer.

"D'Artagnan", he said and looked at the young man expectantly, "carry on."

"He was celebrating this a little too much and soon, the usual 'who is better than who' started. He stated that the musketeer regiment is a disgrace and we are just, and I'm quoting here, 'stupid drunkards in the unjust favor of the King with a wannabe captain'."

Tréville frowned. It was nothing he hadn't heard before.

"So we decided to make a little competition," d'Artagnan continued and nervously glanced at his companions, "and Porthos and Aramis suggested their usual melon game. Only this time, they used three apples and the man balancing it on his head and shoulders was a red guard."

Tréville groaned. He knew where this was going.

"Aramis indeed did shoot it off his head and shoulders but he might've slightly grazed the man's shoulder. So of course, they…"

Tréville stopped him with a movement of his hand and walked up to Aramis.

"Just that I get this clear, you failed to make a perfect shot?"

Aramis merely shrugged.

"I was drunk. I shot the apples anyway, didn't I?"

Tréville's face was only inches away from Aramis'. He didn't look as content as the marksman.

"You wounded a red guard. Over nothing but your pride and ambition."

"And my money…" Porthos mumbled in a weak attempt to rescue his friend from the captain's wrath.

"I don't see how you fit into all of this," Tréville said as he eyed Athos intensely and d'Artagnan continued.

"Aramis, being his usual self, thought he could offer the man some medical care for the...you know his accidental scratch," and the Gascon really spat that word, "…he received from that. He, of course, refused and started yelling insults at everyone. Athos told him to stop being such a pitiful wimp."

Tréville groaned.

"You barely say anything when I need you too, but in that particular moment you couldn't keep your mouth shut?" he asked Athos reproachful, but his words barely reached the swordsman.

He just shrugged.

"The man was exaggerating," Aramis interfered, "Athos was merely saying what everybody was thinking."

Tréville sat down on his desk and returned his attention to d'Artagnan.

"And then?"

D'Artagnan pointed at his comrades, who all looked rather worn out and each of them carried impressive bruising.

"I think the rest explains itself. A fist fight broke out, and Athos, Porthos and Aramis took them all down. I've got to admit, it was a little bit impressive."

Tréville couldn't help but being a little bit impressed. He loved these men like his own sons, but sometimes, their passion for a good fight and their temper gave him too much of a headache.

"Take the day off. Think about what you've done. I never want to see that again. Dismissed," he barked and the three of them narrowed their eyes in surprise.

Aramis and Porthos as well as d'Artagnan turned on their heels and made their way out of there, Athos was a little slower.

"Athos," Tréville called and the swordsman looked at him over his shoulder.

"Captain?"

"Whatever sort of training you are practicing whenever I am not there to witness it, good job."

Athos tilted his head.

"It's our one and only goal to impress you, Sir."

"Just…get out of here."

**-MMMM-**

A few hours later, d'Artagnan was sparring with Porthos in the courtyard of the musketeer garrison. Since they had a day off, they had no guard duties to attend to and d'Artagnan, ambitious as usual, came up with the idea of training.

Mysteriously, Aramis and Athos had disappeared shortly after, stating they had important businesses to take care of, so that left him with Porthos.

He landed a good strike on the taller musketeer and Porthos stumbled back, groaning slightly.

"You know, I knew you would be a little worn out after last night. The red guards did put up a fair fight after all," d'Artagnan teased his friend and Porthos laughed it off.

"Rubbish. I can still crush you without even trying."

D'Artagnan smirked, used his friend's inattention to his advantage and disarmed Porthos after three other quick attacks and pushed him into the mud with his boot.

Porthos grinned.

"I wasn't even trying."

D'Artagnan chuckled and lent his friend a helping hand.

"Sure. I wouldn't think anything different."

Porthos grunted and stalked over to the table near the captain's office and took a deep sip out of a bottle of wine.

D'Artagnan joined him, leaned against the wooden surface and started to clean the blade of his main gauche, while Porthos finished the bottle quickly.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

"You know, I thought after last night, you would've had enough."

Porthos shrugged and eyed him intensely.

"You know as well as I do that most of the wine went to Athos."

"Still, he seemed far better off this morning than you and Aramis did."

Porthos sighed and shook his head lightly.

"Well, he has more practice, I'd say."

D'Artagnan smiled and fastened his main gauche at his weapon belt again.

"Speaking of Athos, you've any idea where he went? If he didn't want to do some training he could've just said so."

Porthos tapped his shoulder in a reassuring manner.

"As far as I know, he wanted to go to the blacksmith. He murmured something about his new dagger."

D'Artagnan snorted.

"And Aramis?"

"Dunno, but he took off into the church's direction. So, he's probably there. And I'm not planning to disturb him."

D'Artagnan shook his head and looked at Porthos.

"That man is a contradiction in himself."

Porthos laughed and squeezed the Gascon's shoulder as he stood up.

"Took you long enough to realize. Anyway, see ya tomorrow at morning muster."

And he turned on the heel and headed towards the gate, d'Artagnan followed him quickly and accompanied him out of the garrison.

"Where are you going?"

Porthos glared at him, obviously amused.

"Personal affairs I have to attend to near Notre-Dame. And also…", he said and tilted his head towards a young woman that hurried over to them, who d'Artagnan recognized as Constance, "I think you have some jobs to do. Constance…." Porthos took off his hat as a greeting.

"See you later, d'Artagnan."

And the tall man quickly headed off towards Notre-Dame.

D'Artagnan immediately returned his attention to the woman standing in front of him. Constance Bonacieux, her long hair tied behind her neck and in a beautiful blue dress she wore often ever since she was in service of the Queen.

"Constance," he said and smiled at her, "what can I do for you?"

Constance shyly returned the smile.

"The Queen dismissed me from her services for today since I have a lot to do at home. I was hoping you could help me with some of it. You know, lifting heavy boxes and stuff like that."

She stared at the ground, as if she was scared of what he was going to say.

D'Artagnan sighed.

"Well, I could never turn down your wishes. Fortunately, I have a day off, so I'm free."

She smiled at him relieved, and took him by the hand as she dragged him to her house.

**-MMMM-**

_The next morning_

D'Artagnan nervously shifted from one foot to the other, the feeling of unease slowly creeping into his consciousness.

He was standing at morning muster, together with the rest of the musketeer garrison, while Tréville was giving the orders for the day.

The captain's eyes met d'Artagnan's multiple times and by the look of it, d'Artagnan was in deep trouble.

Because every musketeer was lined up in front of Tréville. All but three.

Porthos, Athos and Aramis were missing. And that was very unusual.

So there were two options.

One, the three of them and d'Artagnan were supposed to be somewhere and d'Artagnan forgot it completely. Which meant that the Captain was most likely just waiting for the others to disappear before he'd murder d'Artagnan.

Two, they simply didn't attend morning muster. And they must have a pretty good reason to do so. Athos was far too duteous to miss his orders for the day, and Aramis and Porthos surely learnt their lesson all the previous times and wouldn't dare to trigger the captain's wrath any more.

Tréville finished his monologue and dismissed them, but gestured that d'Artagnan should stay while the other musketeers quickly hurried to do their duty.

D'Artagnan swallowed down the lump in his throat and stayed as the captain took the few steps over to him, his face a mask of anger and discontent.

"So, d'Artagnan, you better tell me what's going on or you'll be mucking out the stables for a week."

The captain sounded downright furious.

D'Artagnan was stunned for a second, but he bravely met the captain's gaze and withstood it with an honest expression.

"I swear, I have no idea."

The captain's lips trembled. He murdered d'Artagnan with his eyes.

"I'm aware of your infinite loyalty to these three stupid idiots but I swear to God, if you don't tell me where they are right now…"

"I'm telling you, I don't know."

"And I'm supposed to believe that, am I?"

"Captain Tréville!" a female voice sounded from the garrison's gate and the two men turned around to see Constance. She gracefully made her way over to them and looked at them curiously.

"Madame Bonacieux," Tréville started and raised a hand before Constance could say anything, "just a moment, please. I need to learn from my fellow soldier what he knows about the whereabouts of three of my musketeers."

Constance's gaze wandered over them multiple times, analyzed d'Artagnan's absolute innocent face until she understood.

"Captain, d'Artagnan spent the day yesterday at my house, helping me out. He hasn't seen anyone since yesterday."

Tréville frowned, but nodded.

"Alright. Madame, what can I do for you?"

Constance held out a little letter, with the royal sigil on it.

"From her majesty, the Queen."

Tréville took it and tilted his head.

"Thank you. Now, d'Artagnan…"

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

"Since you apparently have no clue where the others are, do you have an idea where they might have gone?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, thinking.

"Last thing I know is that Porthos wanted to meet someone near Notre-Dame. Aramis went to church and Athos wanted to get his new dagger from the blacksmith."

"Okay. The four of you and I were supposed to accompany the Spanish ambassador for today. I'm going to do that alone, maybe I'll take a cadet with me. You have my permission to search for the three of them. I have business to attend to later at the palace, but I'll join you later on."

D'Artagnan nodded, hurrying over to stables to get a horse ready.

"D'Artagnan!" the captain called and the Gascon turned around again, impatiently waiting for whatever the captain was about to say.

"Find them."

D'Artagnan nodded and led his horse out of the box, tied it to a rod and saddled it.


	2. Missing Musketeers

**Chapter 2: Missing Musketeers**

The feeling of unease didn't leave d'Artagnan. He would lie if he'd say he wasn't worried at all. He was. He had witnessed Aramis and Porthos missing morning muster two or three times, but most of the times, they appeared shortly after or Athos was there to explain the situation. Athos missed it one time, as he was too drunk to be on time. Tréville had him mucking the stables for two weeks. But all three of them missing had never happened in all the time d'Artagnan was a part of the regiment, and judging by Tréville's reaction, it had also never happened before.

He felt the presence of Constance next to him.

"So they are really missing?" she asked in a questioning tone, to cover the concern in her voice.

D'Artagnan grunted confirmative.

"Either they are drunk in an alley, or something happened. I'm about to find out."

He roughly put the leather bridle on his horse and groaned as he felt Constance tapping him on the shoulder.

"Constance, I really don't have the time for…"

"Shut up, you idiot. I think there is somebody looking for you."

D'Artagnan closed his mouth again and followed her gaze. A young woman in dark green dress stood near a cadet, her red hair wildly pinned up, loose curls falling on her shoulders.

She seemed to ask the cadet, Clément was his name, something.

Clément, currently busy cleaning the table, looked up, and pointed into d'Artagnan's direction shortly after.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow and walked over to meet the woman, the horse walking to his right and Constance on his heels.

The woman came to a stop right in front of him and tilted her head in a greeting manner.

"Good Morning, Monsieur. I was told you are Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan answered with a confused nod, and gestured her to carry on.

"My name is Inès, I am a friend of Porthos'."

D'Artagnan's head shot up, all of his attention on her.

"Porthos?"

She nodded shyly.

"He was supposed to meet me yesterday. He never came, so I figured I would ask one of his friends. Your name fell multiple times, as well as…"

"Aramis and Athos?"

She nodded.

"Do you know where he might be?"

D'Artagnan bit his lip nervously, unsure of what to say.

"Did you want to meet near Notre-Dame?" he asked carefully.

"Yes."

"Where exactly?" d'Artagnan asked, fighting hard to stay patient.

"When you enter l'île de la Cité over Pont Saint-Michel, turn right. There is a fountain. We used to meet there."

"Alright. Thank you, Madmoiselle…," he said, while putting a foot in the stirrup and lifting himself on the horse.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, what does that mean?" the woman asked, confusion written all over her face. "Please, explain yourself."

But d'Artagnan had no time, and even though he could feel with the lady, he was forced into action.

"Constance…" he merely stated and communicated with her in a silent language. Constance nodded, took the woman by the hand and walked her over to the bench, while d'Artagnan dug his heels into the animal's flank.

He steered the animal out of the garrison's courtyard and took the fastest way to Notre-Dame. Going the way Porthos' probably took yesterday was his only trace and he was willing to give it a try. The crowds of civilians were making room for him, and d'Artagnan carefully and closely eyed the areas, hoping to find any kind of indication what happened to Porthos.

According to Inès, Porthos had never reached their meeting-location near Notre-Dame. D'Artagnan didn't know who Inès was, but he could take his guesses. Porthos wasn't the one for jilting someone. There must be a reason why he never made it to Notre-Dame, and d'Artagnan feared it might not be a pleasant one.

His horse grew a little agitated the further d'Artagnan pushed it through the streets of Paris, and the Gascon didn't need to wait too long to find out why. He was only halfway on his way to Notre-Dame when his eyes spotted something unusual.

A lot of people were hurrying above the street and back, clearing up a mess that had been left behind.

Next to an old church was a market, or what was left of it. Three of the market stands were destroyed, thrown over, and the contents were stamped into the ground or scattered all over the street.

D'Artagnan's gaze wandered over the scenery again, and with a heavy heart, he remembered Aramis was last seen going to church. It could be a coincidence, but d'Artagnan just hoped he was wrong with his assumptions.

"Hey, musketeer!" a raw voice called and he looked at a man, maybe Tréville's age, that walked up to him and took d'Artagnan's horse by the neck to stop it. "Why don't you take a minute and detect the damage done here?"

"Jacques, stop it. He is a musketeer!" a woman screeched and rushed forward, placing her hand on her husband's arm.

"Yes, and it is his job to protect the people in this city and fight their threats, at least that's what I've always thought of you," Jacques replied and kept the firm grip on the horse's bridle.

The woman looked scared, but she glanced at d'Artagnan with so much pleading and fear that the musketeer just raised a hand in a calming gesture.

"It's alright. Tell me, Monsieur, what happened here?"

Jacques nodded, determination written all over his face.

"Maybe you should come inside. My son can tell the whole story."

D'Artagnan hesitated for another second. He felt like he didn't have the time for any chitchat since every bone in his body screamed to search for his friends, but maybe this was a lead to one of them. D'Artagnan prayed that he was wrong.

He nodded and dismounted quickly.

"You can give me your horse, Monsieur!" Jacques' wife said and took the reins.

D'Artagnan glared at her gratefully and followed Jacques into the small house. It was as dark as it could possibly be inside, and d'Artagnan was left surprised by what he saw when Jacques led him to his son.

His son, maybe fourteen years old at most, was seated on a bed, a handmade bandage wrapped around his arm and head. A few shallow cuts were visible on the left side of his face.

His head shot up the second he noticed d'Artagnan, fully armed and in uniform, coming through the door.

"It's alright, Pierre," Jacques assured his son and laid a hand on Pierre's shoulder, "he is here to help, not to arrest you. Am I right?"

The man eyed d'Artagnan intensively and piercingly.

D'Artagnan frowned.

"No, boy. I am here to help. Pierre is your name, yes?"

The boy blinked as a response but still looked scared.

D'Artagnan got on his knees in front of the boy, his weapons rattling at the movement.

"I need you to tell me what happened here."

Pierre looked at his father for confirmation, and Jacques nodded and squeezed his son's shoulder reassuringly.

"There was this man. He wore a musketeer uniform. He left the church."

"When?" d'Artagnan interrupted.

"Yesterday. There weren't many people around. I was waiting for Maman to fetch me, so I guarded her market stand in the meantime. I noticed another man, wearing a hood and dark clothing, waiting behind a stone pillar with a knife in his hands I think."

D'Artagnan tried to ignore the shudder that ran over his back and concentrated on the story.

"Anyway, the hooded man tried to sneak up on the musketeer and grab him from behind, but the musketeer apparently heard that and turned around last second. There were other hooded men, coming from all directions. They have been hiding. The musketeer fought four of them at once, and during the fight, they destroyed the market. Those attackers were ruthless, Monsieur, and they pushed me out of the way into the splintered wood. The musketeer tried to rescue me, but he was outnumbered. The last thing I remember is that the musketeer was unconscious and the hooded men dragged him away."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth.

"So, the musketeer was alive, last time you saw him?"

Pierre nodded.

"Yes. These men destroyed half of the market and fought the musketeer without any reason."

Jacques snorted.

"No offense, but I think every man who shows up wearing hoods and masks in the middle of the day, injuring innocent civilians, is not by his senses."

D'Artagnan nodded, slowly processing what he has just been told.

"How did the musketeer look like?" he asked the boy, needing confirmation before he did anything else.

"Why, are you missing some?" Jacques threw in and d'Artagnan just glared.

Pierre cleared his throat.

"A little shorter than you, I think, Monsieur." Pierre looked at him from head to toes. "Dark, shoulder long hair. And a beard, if I recall correctly."

_Could be Athos or Aramis_, d'Artagnan thought and sighed. However, the case that this was Athos was very unlikely.

"Anything else you noticed?"

"I think he had a brown uniform. When he left the church, he put on a weapon belt and wore a rifle or something hooked on a strap around his waist. I think not every musketeer does that, do they?"

_No. But Aramis does._

"No, no they don't," d'Artagnan replied absent-mindedly. "Thank you. You helped me a lot."

Pierre gave him a shy smile.

D'Artagnan leaned forward and patted the boy on the knee.

"I wish you a quick and safe recovery, Pierre."

"What about the damage done? To my son and my wife's market?" Jacques interfered and raised a questioning eyebrow.

D'Artagnan's patience was at its limits. He stood up and didn't even try to hide his annoyed facial expression.

"I will inform my captain, and he will inform the King. Now, if you excuse me, Monsieur, I have some criminals to catch."

And he turned on the heel and made his way out of the house.

"Good luck!" he heard Pierre shouting after him.

D'Artagnan mounted his horse again and took a deep breath.

So, Aramis was ambushed and probably abducted after he left the church. Which meant, he didn't miss morning muster on purpose. If these criminals were in this part of the city, they probably also had Porthos.

Fear swept over him. They ambushed musketeers. Why Porthos, why Aramis? And probably Athos as well.

As d'Artagnan decided to visit the blacksmith Athos usually went to, he couldn't ignore the feeling of being watched, and for the first time in a long time, he was actually scared.

He arrived at his destination about fifteen minutes later, jumped off his horse and tied it to a wooden pillar that carried the roof of the location.

Nobody was at the forge, so d'Artagnan went and knocked on the door of the house that belonged to the smith. He received no answer.

Worry and discomfort took over all of his senses, and he wanted to take a closer look the place.

The forge's fire was ashen-cold, it was obviously not used for some time. The hammers laid on the anvil, unused, and on the wall next to it were a couple of weapons hanging from the hooks, ready to be sold.

Mostly, there were long rapiers and broad swords, but d'Artagnan also spotted a slim and defined dagger, safely secured in a scabbard. He closed his eyes. He would bet that this was the dagger Athos came to retrieve, since the blade totally fit his style.

D'Artagnan sighed and ran a hand over his face and clawed it into his hair.

What on earth happened to them? Aramis abducted, Athos never arrived at the blacksmith. Porthos…maybe someone near Notre-Dame has seen Porthos. It's not like he was easy to miss.

D'Artagnan made his decision and was determined to visit Notre-Dame first before he would return to Tréville to make his report. Maybe the captain had some better ideas.

The Gascon undid the knot of the reins and calmed the mare, which felt his jumpiness and unease of its rider and snuffled softly.

Without any prior indication or warning, the horse suddenly moved backwards and reared up.

"Whoa, easy girl…" d'Artagnan tried to soothe her and kept a firm grip on the reins.

He didn't see the man sneaking up to him and he didn't hear the drawing of a weapon. All he felt was a sudden pain exploding in his head and his descent towards the ground was immediate.

The horse wrest itself free and nickered loudly, before running down the road.

D'Artagnan's vision was blurry, but he could make out a voice, even though he couldn't identify the man in his eyesight it belonged to.

"I'm sorry…," he heard the voice whisper.

Another punch and everything went black.


	3. Monsieur de la Serre

**Chapter 3: Monsieur de la Serre**

Tréville rode through the gates of the garrison next to a cadet named Guillart, who he had taken with him on the mission to guard the Spanish ambassador. He jumped off his horse as soon as it came to a stop and took a look around; searching the courtyard for any signs of d'Artagnan or his three lost musketeers.

He noticed Clément by the stables and quickly ordered him to come over.

The young man dropped the pitchfork and hurried over to his captain.

"Sir?"

"Clément, have you seen d'Artagnan?"

To Tréville's growing concern, Clément shook his head.

"He hasn't returned yet."

Frustrated, Tréville ran a hand over his eyes.

His gaze locked onto Constance, who was seated next to a young woman Tréville had never seen at the garrison before. He quickly joined them.

"What's going on here?" he demanded to know and Constance looked up.

"Inès here walked into the Garrison this morning and told us that Porthos didn't arrive at their meeting near Notre-Dame yesterday. She was worried something may have happened."

Tréville let out a breath he didn't knew he was holding.

"Yes, she is not the only one."

Inès looked at him, worry and anxiety was evident in her face.

"Captain, do you have any news?"

Tréville shook his head, wearily.

"Not yet. But I should have some soon. If you'll excuse me…"

A loud nickering and the thundering of hooves interrupted the sentence he was about to say. Every person's attention turned to the gates where a horse broke through, the eyes wide open and it was panting hard.

It was saddled, but the rider missed. Tréville recognized it as one of the Garrison's horses.

Clément took it on himself to calm the frightened animal, but it took him some time. Whatever the horse had witnessed, it freaked it out very bad.

The captain walked up behind Clément and inspected the animal.

"Which horse is this?" he asked, not too familiar with the different horses at the stables.

"This is Bijou."

Tréville raised an eyebrow.

"Who took her this morning?" he asked, even though a weird feeling in his guts told him he already knew the answer.

"D'Artagnan took her, Sir."

Tréville cursed.

Whatever d'Artagnan found out, there was someone out there who didn't want Tréville to find out what happened to the other ones.

"Clément, I want you to make sure that no musketeer, none, is on his own right now. They have to form groups of two, at least, before they leave the garrison. Understood?"

The cadet nodded, and kept the horse still as Tréville mounted it quickly.

"Where are you going, captain?"

Tréville snatched the reins out of the young man's hands.

"Palace. No new search troops for d'Artagnan until I come back!" he ordered and spurred his horse into action, noticing that the cadet Guillart who accompanied him earlier followed him.

No musketeer on his own. That didn't exclude the captain.

**-MMMM-**

The captain arrived at the palace twenty minutes later, left his horse with Guillart and burst the doors open loudly, making his way to the throne room.

The palace guards stared at him with a frightened look on their faces.

"Where's Rochefort?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"In the throne room, Captain, waiting for his audience with the King," one of the guards answered quickly, "do you wish to enter?"

"Get out of my way," Tréville hissed and shoved the two men out of his way, before knocking the doors open that revealed the throne room.

It was nearly empty, neither the King nor the Queen were present. Rochefort on the other hand was standing in front of a painting, examining it in a throughout way, until he heard Tréville's dramatic entrance.

"Captain. I was hoping to see you here, we have to…"

But Tréville didn't let him finish his sentence. He walked up to the Comte de Rochefort until they stood face to face.

"What did you do to them?" he said between clenched teeth, his voice quivering with anger.

Rochefort raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Don't give me that, I am no fool. I want you to tell me what you did with them and why."

Rochefort furrowed his brow even deeper, and he looked really confused.

"Would you be so kind and explain my crimes to me, captain?"

Tréville growled.

"My musketeers. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan. They all vanished."

"And why do you think this is my doing?" the comte replied, his voice as edgy and harsh as usual.

"Don't give me that, you know exactly why…"

"What is going on here?" a voice interrupted and Tréville and Rochefort both turned around to see the King coming through the other door, accompanied by two guards.

Rochefort and Tréville bowed quickly.

"Your majesty, it is a pleasure to be graced with your presence today" Rochefort added in a bootlicking manner.

Tréville glared at the Comte to express his still very present anger, but he quickly turned all of his attention to the King.

"Your majesty, an incident this morning at the musketeer garrison. I assumed Rochefort may have some information about it, so I asked him. Politely."

He nervously cleared his throat, waiting for the King to say something.

"What kind of incident are we talking about here, Captain?" Louis asked and his gaze wandered over the assembled men.

"Four of my musketeers disappeared, Sire. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan are missing."

The King looked surprised." Now, it's always them, isn't it?" He smiled, but Tréville's face seemed to concern him. "And what do you assume might have happened?" he asked.

"I was about to ask Rochefort if he may have heard something from the red guards. I am forced to expect that something unpleasant happened to them."

It was Rochefort who posed the question Tréville was already prepared for.

"Why? For what I know of the musketeer's reputation, they could as well have fallen into the Seine because they were drunk."

Tréville bristled with anger, but he tried to control himself as he turned towards the King.

"With all my respect, Sire, but my musketeers take their duty very seriously. Three of them seemed to have disappeared yesterday. I sent d'Artagnan out this morning to look for them. His horse returned half an hour ago, scared and without its rider."

The King nodded, his face pensive.

"And what do you want me to do now, Tréville?"

Tréville hesitated for a second, before he answered, choosing his words carefully.

"It is my duty to inform you about your men, your majesty. In addition, I was hoping the red guards could take over some of the musketeer's duties until we find out what happened."

The King eyed him suspiciously for a second. Tréville knew that Louis was still angry with him because he refused the title of the First Minister, but maybe that was one more reason why he would be inclined to follow Tréville's suggestions.

"Very well, Tréville," the King said and it took a load of Tréville's mind, "but I want you to take care of this business as fast as possible. A representative of the British crown is expected at the palace in five days. I want my musketeers to be there, all of them."

Tréville took a bow.

"You are dismissed, captain", the King continued and stood up straight.

"If you allow, your Majesty, I will conduct the captain to the exit, before we talk," Rochefort injected.

The King didn't look pleased, but he didn't say anything.

Rochefort, much to Tréville's disgust, walked very closely to the captain.

"I have nothing to do with the disappearance of your musketeers", the comte snarled into his ear, and Tréville didn't even bother to look at him, "but after what happened in this tavern fight two nights ago, I can not say that I am sorry. The red guard will not help you with the search."

Tréville harrumphed as they reached the large doors.

"I didn't expect you to", he shot back and eyed Rochefort with an ice-cold glare. "Help and support are deeds reserved for the honorable."

He left the palace through the doors, feeling Rochefort's stare in his back. But, much to Tréville's dismay, it was the first time he actually did believe the words coming out of the comte de Rochefort's mouth.

**-MMMM-**

The first thing he was aware of was the constant pounding in his head, a steady and annoying sensation that pulled him from the darkness of unconsciousness.

"I think he is waking…" a voice whispered, not too far away from him.

"Claude, come over here…" another voice, a female one, called softly.

D'Artagnan slowly became aware of his circumstances. His eyes were still closed, but his other senses regained their usual attentiveness.

He heard voices speaking with each other, rapidly and quietly, obviously nervous about what was to come. D'Artagnan was seated on a chair, his head sunken on his chest, and his hands were tied behind his back with thick and raw ropes.

The air smelled like a mix of cattle and burned wood, a scent one could barely catch in the city of Paris. It remembered d'Artagnan of his years before he became a musketeer, so he inspected he must be somewhere on the countryside. A farm maybe. A village.

His foggy mind tried to remember what exactly had happened.

His friends missing. Ambushed, kidnapped. Barely a trace where they might've gone. Blacksmith, the dagger. His horse running away. A voice apologizing before knocking him out. Hard.

As realization hit him, his eyes snapped open immediately. He winced at the blinding light that poured through the window nearby and he needed to blink multiple times to clear his vision.

D'Artagnan took a second to take in every detail of the room he was in. Even though it was a small one, it was definitely inherited by a noble family. The portraits on the wall as well as the pompous candleholders on neatly processed wooden commodes confirmed that. Dark red curtains framed the only window in the room, and judging by the height of the tree in front of the window d'Artagnan guessed he was at least on the second floor of a building.

Still, the chair he was bound to, was a simple wooden one, nothing more than an old bar chair.

Four people were assembled in the room.

A man, maybe in his late forties, leaned against the door, his face cleanly shaven, his brown hair clamped behind his ears. A scar ran over his temple, giving the man a rather scary appearance.

A woman, about the same age, was seated on a chair on the other side of the room. She wore a dress in a dark blue color, her décolleté adorned with a pendant of white crystals. Her dark blonde hair was pinned up, covered by a neat hat.

Behind her was a huge man, a grim smile over his face. He sported a black eye and a dried trail of blood darkening the left side of his face. His dark hair was ridiculously long, and a bushy beard completed his barbarian appearance.

Kneeling on the floor in front of d'Artagnan was the last man, short, brown hair, and a well-groomed mustache covering his mouth. He had a hand on d'Artagnan's arm, and the Gascon shrank back immediately due to the touch, feeling truly uncomfortable.

"Whoa, easy pal. I'm not going to hurt you."

D'Artagnan breathed heavily, trying to tame the panic rising up in his chest.

"Who are you?" he growled, struggling against the ropes around his wrists.

"My name is Dorian de la Serre," the older man leaning by the door spoke, "that is my wife Cristina and my son Claude. And this grim looking gent over there is Gustav."

D'Artagnan's eyes wandered over the people, connecting the names he just heard with the faces. He didn't recall meeting any one of them at any point of his life.

"You are probably wondering what is going on," Claude started with a gentle voice.

"I know very well what is going on," d'Artagnan spat and narrowed his eyes, "you kidnapped me. My friends too, probably. You have any idea what you've done?"

Claude sighed.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked.

D'Artagnan growled at the term. He was used to it coming out of his brothers' mouths, but he was a full musketeer, for god's sake, not some lost farm boy anymore.

"D'Artagnan."

"Okay, d'Artagnan. I swear it is not exactly what it looks like. Please, would you let me explain? I'm willing to cut the ropes if you promise to listen."

D'Artagnan bit his lip, unsure what to reply. He would take any chance to get out of these bindings, so he nodded hesitantly.

Claude rounded the chair, pulled out a knife and with a swift move, he cut through the rope.

The second d'Artagnan wrangled his hands free, he jumped on his feet, hitting Claude with his elbow backwards. Before he had the chance to run to the door, he noticed Gustav leaping forward, with much more agility d'Artagnan had expected from a man his size.

Cristina screeched frightened, and shielded her eyes from the fight.

The Gascon launched an attack with his fist at the large man, but Gustav blocked it with his hand, wrapping his arms around d'Artagnan's body shortly after, blocking any other attack that might follow.

"That's not what I understand under listening" Dorian de la Serre commented dryly.

"You kidnapped me. What good intentions could you possibly have?" d'Artagnan roared and struggled against the headlock he was now held in.

"We brought you here to ask for your help. Please, listen to us, then you might understand."

D'Artagnan tapped Gustav's arm to say that he cooperated. The bigger man let go, but as d'Artagnan walked two steps back to his chair, the giant followed him.

"So?"

D'Artagnan eyed them all expectantly, his anger flowing hot through his veins.

"D'Artagnan, I am the Baron de la Serre," Dorian began and looked him into the eyes, "I own this house and this estate, where civilians built a few houses and live under my rule. We have been attacked multiple times in the last month. My letters to the palace have been ignored."

He finished, and glared at his son, as if to wait if he was going to add something.

Claude sighed.

"So we decided we had to take things into our own hands, fight on our own."

D'Artagnan looked confused.

"I don't understand. Who is attacking you, and why?"

"The Baron de Terré. A young and brutal man, who is enslaving his people and forcing them to fight for him."

"Isn't that what you are doing right now?" d'Artagnan chipped in with a sour tone.

"Not really, Monsieur," Cristina answered sharply, "we are desperate, but we are neither enslaving you nor forcing you to do something. We just want you to listen. The King ignored our pleading for justice. The Baron de Terré captivated some of our people, and we still don't know what he does to them."

D'Artagnan forced himself to calm his nerves, and tried to think straight.

"When was the last attack?"

Claude raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the interest d'Artagnan showed so suddenly.

"Two weeks ago. We defeated them for the first time, so now de Terré needs to regroup his men, maybe hire some more. I saw his men in Paris. We are at our limits. That's when I decided to go to Paris and see if I can find anyone to fight for our cause."

D'Artagnan snorted.

"Well, what exactly is your cause? How do I know you bear no ill-will against me?"

Claude strode over to him and nudged him by the shoulder.

"The Baron de Terré declared war the moment my father forbid the marriage with my sister. The baron raided our estate, enslaved our people and continues to attack us until he can have my sister."

"So you made prisoners yourself!" d'Artagnan hissed, still mad about the circumstances of his unplanned stay at this estate.

Claude looked at him, and d'Artagnan could see unshed tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. D'Artagnan wasn't as good of a judge of character as Aramis or Athos were, but the desperation this man expressed was honest.

"You are free to go, if you wish. We just asked for your help. You musketeers have a reputation of standing up for justice, and to defend the helpless. I am sorry if we were wrong."

A strange feeling in his gut told d'Artagnan to stay. These people in front of him were noble, rich people, but they looked absolutely helpless.

"You could've just asked for help if you needed it. There was no need for a violent kidnapping," d'Artagnan interjected.

Gustav grunted.

"As Madame de la Serre pointed out already, the King ignored us. And he would never allow his elite guard to help out in some small nobleman's dispute."

D'Artagnan noticed Dorian eyeing Gustav warningly.

"If you'd had just gone with us, you'd probably have huge quarrel with the law. Or the King himself. So basically, you can thank us."

D'Artagnan scowled.

"I'll appreciate it as soon as the ringing in my head stops, thank you."

Claude shrugged.

"We didn't see another choice. We are not brutes. We are just desperate people trying to defend what's ours. And we needed musketeer's help. I saw you with three of your friends two nights ago at the bar. And I realized there is a reason why you are the King's elite guard. That's what makes your help so valuable."

D'Artagnan huffed an ironic laugh.

"What makes you think I'll help you?"

Dorian cleared his throat.

"You are still here."

Cristina rose from her chair and took d'Artagnan's hand, her eyes pleading for understanding.

"I know we seem like the bad guys. Kidnapping and capturing musketeers wasn't our finest hour. But we didn't know what else to do. If we don't get your help, we are doomed."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath.

"I…"

A loud crack echoed through the house, and a deep voice was shouting not too far away from this room.

Every muscle in his body was tense as he hurried over to the door. Nobody stopped him.

"I am not the only kidnapped musketeer, am I?" he asked angrily, not even waiting for an answer before he stormed out of the door.

It was Claude who kept up with him, walking backwards as d'Artagnan searched for the source of the voice.

"You are not the only one, but you are the first one to be cooperative with us. The musketeer we have locked in one of our wine cellars, he didn't want to listen to us and never stopped trying to throw punches. He doesn't seem reasonable."

D'Artagnan stopped as he remembered his friends that vanished the day before.

"How long has he been down there?"

Claude shrugged.

"A day."

"You abducted him from Paris too, did you?"

Claude nodded.

"He was one of the men in the tavern with you. I found him near Notre-Dame, and held him at gunpoint until he agreed to come with me to this estate. Once we arrived, he was out of control."

D'Artagnan growled.

"And you locked him in the wine cellar?"

Claude nodded.

"We did."

"That's going to be really expensive for you."

As if to confirm what d'Artagnan just said, the sound of glass shattering echoed through the house, and d'Artagnan took the stairs that went down.

"Lead me to him."

Claude nodded and led him through the mansion. The employees froze in their spots, terrified of the angry musketeer running around in the house without any bonds. He was unarmed, but d'Artagnan could just imagine what he looked like.

Also, the men they served, Baron de la Serre and his family, basically just committed treason to the crown by abducting musketeers.

Claude came to a stop in front of a thick, wooden door that was guarded by a tall and wiry man, not older than seventeen.

"That's Jorac, the miller's son."

D'Artagnan briefly nodded and gestured to the door. The constant banging from the inside grew louder.

"Open it."

Claude took the keys from Jorac.

"Are you sure, d'Artagnan? This man is out of control. He is insane."

D'Artagnan genuinely laughed.

"No offense, but do you want his help? Do you want to have use of his skills?"

Claude's face was puzzled.

"Of course. The man is a berserk. Truly terrifying."

"But he knows me. He will listen to me."

Claude shrugged.

"Okay. I trust you."

And he opened up the door. Within moments, a furious Porthos came stumbling out of the dark cellar, his hands covered in wine and he smelled awful. His hands were flailing around, and d'Artagnan prevented himself from being punched in the face by taking a step back last second.

"Finally, you cowards. I've been planning this ever since…." He stopped his ranting as he laid eyes on d'Artagnan.

"Whelp?" he asked, as if he wasn't sure his eyes were not betraying him.

"It's alright, Porthos," d'Artagnan said and reached out for his friend's shoulder.

Porthos looked really confused.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

D'Artagnan grimaced.

"Well, I was looking for you. It took me some uninspected detours, but well, I found you."

"Great," Porthos mumbled, and clumped his way to the door, "can we leave now?"

D'Artagnan exchanged a quick look with Claude, who stared at him with so much desperation d'Artagnan didn't have the heart to follow Porthos.

"Wait, Porthos," he said and raised a hand, "these people here need our help."

Porthos snorted, his eyes wide open as if he questioned d'Artagnan's sanity.

"Sure, let's help my kidnappers. Did they hit you on the head in Paris somewhere?"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes.

"Well, yes, actually they did, but that's not the point. They are my kidnappers too, Porthos, but hear them out. Promise me, you will listen to them before you leave."

Porthos scowled, but he was frozen on the spot and nodded.

"They better have a good explanation."

D'Artagnan tilted his head in a thankful gesture, before he turned to Claude again.

"Very well. Where are the others now?"

Claude looked startled.

"The others?"

"Musketeers," d'Artagnan added impatiently, "where did you take the other two men that were at the tavern that night?"

The young nobleman looked at him, and he was truly surprised by the question.

"We weren't able to find the other two men. If they disappeared, this is none of our doing."

D'Artagnan gaped at Claude, his mind trying to search for other explanations what could possibly have happened to Athos and Aramis, if they were not here.

"What does this mean, whelp?" Porthos asked and approached him.

"Athos and Aramis vanished as well. Tréville sent me out this morning to look for you three. Wait…", he stopped and whirled around to Claude who took a step back out of instincts, "didn't you say Baron de Ferrois or whatever his name was is recruiting as well? That his men were in Paris too?"

Claude nodded hesitantly.

"De Terré. And yes I saw his men."

"So, there is a possibility that my comrades are there?"

Claude furrowed his brow.

"Yes, that's not out of question if he plans to maybe sell them back to the King. But you should pray they are not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, in case anyone was wondering, this story is set after Season 2, Episode 4.


	4. Captive

**Chapter 4: Captive**

**Earlier that day**

The last thing Athos remembered was being thrown into a cart, his brain vaguely registering that there were other people around him as well. Even though he was at least half-awake, his mind was foggy, his limbs not cooperating at all, and soon, he drifted back into the darkness.

The next time he awoke, it was because of one or two water drops falling on his face. He scrunched his face and opened his eyes. It was dark, and he was pretty sure he was lying on his back on a very hard surface. Probably stone.

He slowly realized he was able to move, that he had regained control about his body. He brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed them a few times, trying to clear his vision.

He heard low whispering somewhere to his right, and suddenly, a warm and soft hand was on his cheek, patting it lightly.

"Monsieur, are you back with us?"

Athos groaned and turned on his side.

The woman the hand belonged to shrank back abruptly, as if she was scared that he was going to hurt her. She had dirty, blonde hair, and wore nothing but a brown, worn out dress. Probably a farmer's girl. A dark, purple bruise was on her right cheek.

Athos ignored her for now and slowly propped up on his elbows. A loud rustling drew his attention as well as a heavy weight on his wrist.

His eyes wandered to his arms and he realized his right hand was in a handcuff, which was attached to the stone wall with a heavy, rusty chain.

He pulled at it, just to make sure that he was getting this right. He pulled again, more forcefully this time, but the chains were strong and unbreakable. Athos slipped on the dirty floor and landed on his back, the air pushed out of his chest in an instant.

He moaned and closed his eyes again, as if all of this was just a weird dream and he could snap out of it by just waking up, but it didn't happen. He rolled onto his side and took a few deep breaths, fully aware of a lot of eyes being locked on him, watching him and waiting for whatever he was going to do.

So he sat up and crawled backwards until his back leaned against the cold wall. He took notice of his situation for the first time now.

Even though it was dark, he could tell he was locked in a cell, the iron bars blocking his escape into freedom were numerous and thick, the leaky cellar leaving the bars slightly rusty.

He was locked in a cell together with the young woman, who was still crouched in the corner, her wrist also safely locked and the chain attached to the wall. Whoever their captor was, he really didn't want them to escape.

Two other people were in the cell to his right. An old man with a wild, untamed beard and a tattered grey shirt was standing at the iron bars that divided their cells, watching him carefully. The other person was a young boy, maybe fourteen years old, with short, dark hair and deep blue eyes Athos could make out even in the dark light he was given. Both of them were shackled as well.

"Monsieur…," the young woman in his cell started again, giving the conversation a second try, "are you well?"

Athos looked at her through hooded eyes, squinting his eyes in order to see her better in the dim light.

"Where am I?" he rasped, not bothering to answer her question.

"Prison, as you can see. The landlord brought you here yesterday evening," the old man in the other cell answered.

"What…?" Athos really had a hard time understanding this and connecting the information he was given. "No, no, Paris…", he stuttered. God, his mind was still foggy and his movements seemed so slow.

"They drugged you," the old man explained dryly.

"That explains a lot…," Athos mumbled and looked at the man, not satisfied with the little information he was told, "but again, who? Where am I?" His voice took on a more dangerous tone now.

"You are in the captivity of the Baron de Terré, Monsieur." The woman raised her voice again.

"De Terré? Never heard of this man. This must be a misunderstanding. I have duties to attend to, and I've got no time for any of this man's nonsense."

"I fear this is not a misunderstanding," his cell neighbor spoke.

"How do you know that?" Athos growled and glared at him.

"You are a musketeer, monsieur. Just what the baron is looking for. A capable warrior."

"Yes, and I serve the King, not some little nobleman."

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, young man?" the old man hissed and nervously scanned the door, "we are all prisoners here. Some of us are used as hostages, some of us will be forced to help the baron in his affairs on the battlefield. I think you don't have to guess what you will be needed for."

Athos didn't respond to that. He was taking in more of the cellar they were locked in. Two other cells were opposite of theirs, lying in absolute darkness, their content not visible for the musketeer's eyes, as they were still getting used to the lighting conditions in the basement.

"But you are a musketeer, right?" the woman approached him, taking his hand in hers and looking at him with begging eyes, "you are well trained. Maybe you know a way how to get out of here."

Athos shrugged.

"I am a musketeer, not a wizard", he snapped, his anger taking over as his slow mind was trying to think of a solution on how to get the hell out of here. And what was going on in the first place. The woman winced and crawled back into her corner of the cell. Athos felt sorry for being so rude, but right now, he needed to focus on the main cause here.

"Well, maybe your comrade is a little bit more helpful later," the old man exclaimed frustrated and punched against the iron bars.

Athos immediately sharpened his ears.

"My comrade?" he asked, a bizarre feeling of hope flushing through his chest as he was weirdly glad that he wasn't alone with these strangers here. On the other hand, his comrade, whoever it was, was stuck here as well.

The old man nodded and gestured over to the cell that was plunged in darkness.

"He was brought here about an hour later than you, yesterday," the woman explained shyly, "he was unconscious ever since. Hasn't spoken a word."

Athos' heart dropped.

He crawled as close to the cell as his chain allowed him to, so he could maybe make out anything that was in there. Once he got closer, he peered through the bars and narrowed his eyes.

Two figures were in the third cell. One was a giant of a man sitting silently in the corner, awake, but lost in thought. His long hair, wild bushy beard and broad shoulders gave him an intimidating appearance. The other figure was sprawled on the floor, lying on his stomach, and Athos could only see the back of his head. But he was able to recognize the uniform.

Musketeer, definitely.

He crawled a little closer and blinked multiple times, as if that would help him to light his vision. He recognized the pauldron, the fleur de lis, carved on the dark brown leather and with some filigree decorations.

"Aramis…," he breathed, torn between relief that he didn't need to figure out a solution on his own and the shock that his brother was as much of a prisoner as he was.

The figure didn't move.

"Aramis!" he called a little louder, hoping to reach his brother with his commanding voice.

No reaction.

"He's out cold," the until-now mute giant stated flatly.

"Yes, that much I figured," Athos responded sarcastically and leaned against the iron bars, still very tired and worn out, with a constant, dull headache. Maybe a side-effect of whatever they drugged him with.

**-MMMM-**

"So, what do you suggest we do now?" Porthos asked, clearly not happy he had to stay at this mansion for now.

D'Artagnan shrugged.

"What do I know? All I know is that these people need our help."

Porthos snorted disapprovingly.

"Yeah, so do Athos and Aramis. You said they disappeared as well."

D'Artagnan nodded.

"How did they get you, by the way?"

"Come again?"

"Claude and his men. How did they get you to come with them?"

Porthos dropped on one of the noble, pretty chairs.

"It's not as if I had a choice, really," he replied grumpily and gave Claude a piercing look, "appeared out of nowhere behind my back, disarmed me and held me at gunpoint."

"So, basically non-violent?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow.

"If that's what you want to call it, yes. But by the look of your head, your abduction didn't go so easily."

D'Artagnan gazed at Claude, who watched the two of them at a safe distance.

"No, that's true. But I swear I remember someone apologizing before I was knocked out."

"Does that make you feel any better?" Porthos grunted.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth in an attempt to answer, but Porthos didn't let him.

"Listen, lad, as much as I respect your honorable intentions here, my brothers will always be my priority. And I don't trust these people. So you can go and be one more pawn in their game, but I am not going to participate. I'm going to go and search for Athos and Aramis before I might regret my idleness."

D'Artagnan took a step forward and smacked his friend's shoulder lightly.

"Listen to what I want to say, Porthos. I searched for Athos and Aramis before I was captured. Athos apparently never made it to the blacksmith. The place in front of the church Aramis went to was a battleground. From what I was told, he was ambushed and overwhelmed by a few hooded and masked men."

He suddenly felt the presence of Claude behind him.

"The mercenaries of Baron de Terré are always disguised. At least they were the last time we met on a battlefield."

D'Artagnan made a protruding gesture with his hand and eyed Porthos.

"See. The chance that they are captives of de Terré is rather high."

"So?" Porthos retorted indignantly, "then we visit this de Terré and free Athos and Aramis."

Claude's eyes widened and his mouth dropped as if Porthos had lost his mind.

"Good luck with that, pal. Nobody enters his estate unnoticed. His houses are heavily guarded. You won't even know where he keeps your friends."

Before Porthos could respond to that, the door flew open and an upset Gustav stormed in, bristling with anger. He didn't take notice of Porthos or d'Artagnan, he instantly came to a halt in front of Claude.

"What is it?" the young nobleman asked.

"My brother and my nephew. They never returned from Vézelay."

"de Terré?"

"From what we know, yes. My brother is one of the best fighters I know. They probably use Reive as leverage against him. We need to do something, now!"

Porthos walked over to them.

"This Baron has friends of yours too?" he asked and put a hand on Gustav's shoulder in a calming manner.

Gustav growled.

"Not friends. My family."

"So? Then we are two. You and I, we are going to get them back from this Baron de whatever. What do ya think?"

Gustav glared at him. He and Porthos were about the same height, so it really looked like a face-off of giants.

"I'm not dumb. His men are going to tear me into tiny pieces if I make one step on his territory."

"What would they want with musketeers anyway? They can't force them to fight for them. And the two of them for sure can't be bribed with gold," d'Artagnan posed his question and faced Claude.

"From what I heard, he is out of money to pay his brutes. Maybe he wants to use them as hostages and demand ransom for them."

D'Artagnan exhaled slowly.

Porthos let out a deep growl and ran a hand over his head.

"Can anyone here please come up with a somewhat good plan how to rescue his prisoners?" he exclaimed frustrated and his gaze wandered over the few assembled people, "because I am not going to strike roots here and wait until anything happens."

"I do have a suggestion," a voice echoed through the hall and d'Artagnan and Porthos looked up to see Dorian de la Serre, head of the family, hurrying down the stairs.

"Feel free to share, Monsieur," Porthos shot back, having no idea who this man was.

"I have information that de Terré is scouting the area, planning his next attack. Help us, Messieurs, and maybe show our people how to improve their fighting skills. If you are able to make prisoners during the battle, feel free to interrogate them all you want. Maybe they have more information about the whereabouts of your friends…," he gestured to Porthos, "or our people." His eyes locked on Gustav.

D'Artagnan needed a minute to process that suggestion, to weigh his options and their chances of success. Athos and Aramis both being in the hands of this Baron de Terré was the best trace they had. He couldn't go back to Paris and ask Tréville for reinforcements. If the King wasn't interested in these affairs, Tréville had to obey and not send any men out.

He understood Porthos' eager will to act, to keep looking for Athos and Aramis and investigate the circumstances of their disappearance. But a sickening feeling in his guts told d'Artagnan he already knew where those two were. And they had to focus on the best way to get all four of them out of it, unscathed.

Right now, Dorian de la Serre's twist with this Baron de Terré was their best shot.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos, who was still gleaming with anger, but he took a deep breath and nodded hesitantly.

The Gascon looked up to the Baron.

"What do you want us to do?"

**-MMMM-**

The man rode through the alleys of Paris, while the sun was going down. Her warm, orange light gave the narrow and dirty streets a far more welcoming picture than it was.

The man wore a red cape, the hood over his head. Once he spotted his contact, he slipped off the black stallion and easily landed on his two steady feet.

His sword tapped against his thigh with every step, reminding the man to be careful. Whatever he saw, he needed to be prepared for everything. His contact was a person wrapped in dark grey clothing, the arms folded and the head nervously tilting from one side to another, as if to make sure they weren't being watched. A big, wooden cross was hanging from a pendant around his neck, safely secured in the crinkles of the cloak.

"It's good to see you after all this time, boy," the man spoke with a tranquility that would send shivers down every grown man's back.

"Couldn't agree more. We need to make haste."

The man in grey shushed the younger one.

"Keep your patience, Raston. It's not like I am sharing these information on an everyday basis."

Raston stared at the ground, waiting for the old man to continue.

"How many men did you get?"

Raston's eyes wandered up and met the darkness that was the old man's face, covered by the enormous hood he wore. The young man's eyes glistered with a dangerous pride.

"A lot of red guards, in exchange for gold they will never receive. A blacksmith, and three mercenaries. Captured a warrior from the opponent as well as his son. Oh, and my men were able to capture two musketeers."

The old man's head jerked up in surprise.

"Musketeers? And what exactly do you want with them? They are not going to fight for your cause because you ask so nicely."

Raston lifted the corner of his mouth and formed a crooked smile.

"Of course not. I have my ways. All you need to do is keeping Rochefort off my back."

The man in grey nodded hesitantly.

"No worries. He is distracted with his position at the palace. He won't care about anything else right now."

He made a short pause, as if to think twice about what he was about to ask.

"You know the musketeer's names?"

Raston scowled.

"No. Why do you keep asking me about them?" His tone missed every kind of respect he might have shown earlier.

The grey man grabbed him by the collar with so much force nobody would expect from a man like this. He held his head close to Raston's, whispering in his ear.

The tone of wicked satisfaction was evident.

"Figure out their names. I may have something useful for you. Don't lose this fight, boy. In the name of our family."

He let go with a yank.

Raston took off his hat in a greeting manner and turned on the heel to return to his horse, and quickly mounted the frightened animal.

"Very well. Trust me. I'll see you soon, Uncle."

And he took off into the dark of the night, his horse and his figure becoming one with the silent enveloping of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Burden of Uncertainty**

In the last hour, all Athos had done was pull and wrestle on the chains that limited his movements, and growled in frustration whenever he failed.

The effects of whatever he was drugged with slowly but surely wore off, and his mind was getting clearer with every minute. The more clear he was able to think, the more his resistance got weaker and now, he lay slumped against the iron bars, accepting his defeat and his anger was replaced by surrender.

In the cell behind him, the old man and the boy were exchanging some words, but the boy didn't seem to be the one for talking, and the old man had to be satisfied with one word answers most of the time.

Athos noticed the giant in Aramis' cell watching the boy closely, an unfamiliar soft and loving expression in his eyes.

Maybe the boy was his family, Athos concluded. He sighed. He was getting really tired of this. Their captors haven't even shown their faces yet. From what he had figured out, about a day has passed since he was captured near the blacksmith.

His disappearance, and the one of Aramis, wouldn't go unnoticed in the regiment. Athos almost grinned. Tréville would be fuming with anger that two of his musketeers failed to do their duty. But Porthos and d'Artagnan would know something was wrong. This Baron probably messed with the wrong people.

On the other hand, Athos had no idea where exactly he might be. Who knew how far from Paris they were. The travelling apparently took at least half a day's ride. He could be everywhere. And Porthos and d'Artagnan had to get a clue where to find them before they could rescue them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud and sudden movement. Athos' attention was drawn to the cell immediately.

Aramis awoke with a loud gasp, rolling onto his side and choking slightly on the air as he tried to even his breathing. His cellmate moved, much to Athos' surprise, to Aramis' side and gently laid a hand on his shoulder and waited until Aramis calmed down a bit.

"Take it easy" the giant murmured with a raspy, deep voice.

"What…? Where am I?" Aramis asked, his voice hoarse.

The giant silently motioned to Athos' cell, as if to say 'I'll leave the explanations to you'.  
Aramis followed his gaze and his eyes fell on Athos. He crawled as far into Athos' direction as possible, the rustling of the chain as well as a deep groan underlining his movements.

"I see you decided to grace us with your presence," Athos said humorless, and he sounded extremely tired.

Aramis, still busy with figuring out he was actually chained to the prison's walls, turned his head to look at his friend.

Athos eyes widened slightly. By the look of his face, Aramis was not drugged in order to cooperate. He was rather beaten to cooperate against his will.

The marksman's right side of his face swollen and covered in dark bruises, the skin was split on multiple spots. His right eye was swollen shut and he looked more rugged than his tall cellmate. Athos, as usual, tried to check for other injuries, but luckily, he couldn't find any.

"Athos. What the hell are you doing here? Where are we?"

Athos sighed.

"We are prisoners of the Baron de Terré. His men ambushed you yesterday, drugged me and brought us into this little basement."

Aramis sagged against his bars, his head tilted to the side so that his good eye could stay on Athos.

"Yes, I remember. They attacked me once I left church." As if that triggered an idea, Aramis started fumbling on his jacket, his hands patting down his neck and chest. Athos realized what he was doing.

"They took all that is not clothing. Including your pendant you like to misuse as a lock pick."

Aramis let out a breath.

"Well, it would've been too easy, I guess." He blinked at Athos. "Who is this Baron de Terré? I've never heard of him. Why would he risk being charged for these crimes by the King himself and abduct musketeers?"

"He is not reasonable," the old man in the cell next to Athos chipped in, "this man has lost his mind. He is either going to demand ransom for you two, or he has something else in mind. You should pray he just wants the money."

"Don't be fooled," the giant in Aramis' cell spoke, his teeth clenched as he tried to control his obvious anger, "de Terré doesn't need the money. He has another use for you. As well as for me."

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

"And you are?"

The man exchanged a quick look with the old man, before his gaze settled back on Aramis.

"My name is Isko. Over there is my son, Reive. The grumpy old man over there is Hugo, our villages lumberjack. The young lady over there with your musketeer brother answers to the name of Ria. She is a maid in service of our Baron."

"Your Baron?" Athos asked and sat up a little straighter.

"The Baron de la Serre," Hugo answered sharply and paced in his cell, "and we all are just victims of his unfortunate strife with de Terré."

They all fell silent the moment they heard the thick, wooden door to the basement being opened. A wave of light welled out and Athos squeezed his eyes shut as it blinded him.

A man in a long, grey cloak walked in and made space for three young girls, each with a small tablet in their hands.

"Dinnertime!" he exclaimed amused and regarded each and every one of them, "I see you all are awake. The Baron will be pleased."

Athos had a firm grip on the iron bars and pulled himself up on shaky legs, his forehead leaning against the cold metal that divided him from the man, as he opened the door so the girls were able to serve them their meals.

"What is the meaning of this?" Athos demanded to know, letting go of the iron bars as the door was opened. The girl with the tablet looked at him shyly, before she scurried past him and quickly put the tablet on the ground. The man kept a safe distance, one Athos couldn't cross while being chained to the wall, and he wasn't so dumb to try to leap at him.

"You'll learn soon enough," the man responded and gestured to the other cells, "until then, we hope you enjoy the company."

Athos could do nothing but watch as the door was being closed again, the bars only inches from his face. The next cell was being opened, and Hugo and Reive, knowing the procedure, stood in silence and took the tablet into their hands as the girl handed it to them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos watched Aramis picking himself up, leaning heavily against the wall. His door was opened last, and the girl entered, the strange man just standing one arm reach behind her, as if to guard her. With a look at Isko, Athos guessed that he tried to revolt one time, so maybe that was why the stranger was so careful in this cell.

What the stranger didn't have on account was the sudden and untamed temper of Aramis. Once he got into a close distance, Aramis lifted his head.

"We demand an audience with the Baron de Terré right now."

The stranger just chuckled weakly; he didn't bestow as much as a glance at the musketeer. But he stood too close. Aramis was able to get hold of the man's sleeve, grabbing it tightly with his unshackled hand.

"This is a crime against the crown you are committing!" he growled and thrust the man against the wall.

Athos noticed other men standing in the doorway of the basement, drawing their weapons at an instant, but there was no need to interfere. The stranger kneed Aramis in the guts and pushed him to the floor, before he stormed out of the cell and locked it.

"Know your place, musketeer!" he spat, before wrenching the key out of the hole and trampling back to the door, slamming it shut on his way out.

"Are you alright?" Athos queried, watching as his comrade propped up on his elbows and got into a sitting position.

"Fantastic," Aramis grunted sarcastically and winced as he leaned against the wall, "it was worth a try."

"Indeed it was," Isko commented and offered his cellmate the bowl filled with broth. "You should try it...," he added, "it is the best you'll get here."

Aramis took it and Athos also collected the bowl from the ground, sitting in front of Ria and ate the broth. It was very watery and without really a taste, but it was enough to satisfy his grumbling stomach for now. Athos still felt the side effects of whatever he had been drugged with, as everything seemed much slower than it should be. He cursed silently. Judging by the faint light coming through the only window in the basement, Athos guessed it was late evening now. The sun vanished and left the prisoners in total darkness.

**-MMMM-**

Athos was able to get about two hours of sleep, even though it was more than uncomfortable on the stone floor, but his exhaustion just had taken over. He awoke in the middle of the night. Ria was fast asleep, stretched out on the floor. Athos propped up against the iron bars, unwillingly rustling his chain.

"Can't sleep?" a voice asked him from the opposite side and Athos looked up to meet the soft gaze of Aramis, leaning in an odd angle with his back against the stone wall.

"I don't seem to be the only one…" Athos responded wryly. He swallowed hard before he continued. "It's a strange feeling that won't let me sleep. This feeling of not being able to do anything. Not yet at least."

Aramis chuckled weakly, but it missed its usual cheer.

"Surely it's not the fact that you are trying to sleep sober?"

Athos grunted. "Why do you don't sleep?" he asked instead as he failed to come up with a good comment.

Aramis sighed.

"My thoughts, I guess. This cell. Well, and my face won't stop pounding."

"Seems like you took a good beating."

Athos waited a moment, not sure if he would like to keep this conversation going. But what else were they supposed to do?

"What are you thinking about?" he asked his comrade, curious if he might have come up with a solution that freed them out of the dilemma, but Aramis' answer left him disappointed concerning their plan of escape.

"Official answer or honest one?"

Athos snorted. "You really have to ask?" He shook his head.

Aramis seemed to gather himself.

"I always feared this day might come. That I end up chained like a dog in a dark cellar, extradited to mercy alone. I just thought that the prison would be a different one."

A queasy feeling settled in Athos' stomach once he realized what his friend was referring to. Ever since Aramis was told what happened to Adele, and what other secrets might still be out there, he lived in a constant fear that someone would make a move against him, against the Queen and against the dauphin. Athos knew that the King would never believe these accusations if they came out of a poor and simple man's mouth. It would be difficult to reverse the presumption, but not impossible.

But if someone at the court ever overheard a rumour, concerning a certain musketeer in his affair with the Queen of France, it could be a total different story. But Aramis knew that.

"Prisons are mostly the same. It doesn't matter if you are locked here or in the Bastille," Athos answered, again gloriously showing off his supportive characteristics.

Aramis ran a hand over his face, his expression was truly desperate.

"That's a comfort," he sighed, "You know, concerning this subject, you always make me feel like I dug a hole so deep I'm gonna drown in my mistakes."

"Well, it wasn't your brightest idea back at the convent," Athos scoffed.

Aramis just glared.

"If it was a mistake, I would feel bad about it. I don't. At least not for the incident itself. Therefore, I am not going to apologize. Not if I did nothing wrong."

Athos bristled, but the expression in his eyes grew softer and had a witty spark in it.

"When the time is right, the two of us should have a serious conversation about your definition of the word wrong." His face was a mask of stone. "But not now."

Aramis offered him a crooked smile.

"You know I don't need to. I am no fool, Athos. Whatever I may feel, whatever my heart tells me to do, I know my duty. And that is to do what's best for France."

Athos looked at his shackled hand, examining it while thinking of the best answer to that statement. He had noticed how troubled Aramis truly was, ever since what happened at the convent. Of course Athos has been angry with Aramis, angry how he could so foolishly risk his own life and the one of the Queen as well. But what's done is done, and he could only hope his brother's restlessness was controlled and he was able to blend out everything that happened. However, he was deeply angered by the fact how little regret Aramis showed towards the whole matter.

"I know it's head versus heart, Aramis. Just…don't do something stupid, for the sake of my sanity, will you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Aramis croaked.

"You think he is going to try to use us against the King?" Athos asked, quickly changing the subject as he noticed Ria murmuring something in her sleep. It's not as if it was obvious what Aramis and Athos had been talking about, but one could never be too sure.

"No clue," Aramis responded, uncomfortably fumbling with the chain, "Considering how the King behaves in front of Tréville at the moment, I doubt these idiots will succeed with that." He made a pause. "I just hope we meet this Baron de Terré tomorrow. I like to know who I am dealing with."

"Yes," Athos agreed, "I'd also like to know what these noblemen's strife is about."

Aramis bit his lip.

"If we don't get out of here by ourselves…do you think…?"

But Athos didn't let him finish his sentence.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan for sure have noticed our absence by now. You seriously think they'd just leave us to our fate?"

He watched Aramis close his eyes, letting this question sink in. He couldn't imagine Aramis would seriously ever doubt his brothers.

"No, you're right. Let's just hope that tomorrow, we know who we are dealing with."

**-MMMM-**

"No, no, not like this!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, completely bugged out and quickly stepped up next to Jorac, the miller's son of the village. It was already late at night, and Porthos and d'Artagnan have been showing the willing people in the village the basics of combat.

The noble family as well as Gustav were well trained, so they helped them out and showed their people how to shoot a pistol and how to use a rapier.

D'Artagnan was showing Jorac for the what it felt like hundredth time how to move his body when engaged in a sword-fight, when they were interrupted by a horse galloping through the village's entrance archway and coming to a jolty halt in front of Dorian and Claude.

"My men just heard that Raston de Terré is expected home in about two hours. His men are already gathered. From how I assess his character, you might expect the next attack tomorrow. You should start to barricade the village and secure your people."

Claude reached into his pocket, got a little pouch, probably filled with gold, and tossed it to the rider.

"Thank you."

The rider tilted his head and disappeared as quickly as he appeared.

Claude and Dorian immediately hurried over to Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"We need to start securing the village. Will you help us?"

Porthos shook his head vigorously.

"That's nonsense. If he really does have as many men as you say, why risk that he reduces the buildings to dust and ashes? Why not meet him on a prepared battlefield in front of the village?"

"We have children here, Porthos," Dorian snapped, "How do you suggest we can guarantee their safety when there is no one here?"

Porthos raised his hands.

"Fair point. Then get the children out of here. Let at least two men guard them."

"Two men can't assure their safety," Claude interjected.

"Is there a village belonging to a baron you trust nearby?" d'Artagnan asked, desperate for solutions. Dorian gaped at him, not quite following their chain of thought.

"Is there one?" d'Artagnan asked more forcefully this time and addressed Claude.

The nobleman shrugged.

"Yes. The Baron de la Luire. About an one hour ride from here. We might give it a shot."

"Then get the children out of the line of fire, for god's sake," Porthos grumbled.

Dorian sighed.

"You're right. I probably should've done it before."

Porthos mumbled something before he turned to the archway of the village again.

"Let's barricade the village. They attacked from there until now you said?" he asked and motioned to the direction he referred to.

Claude nodded.

"Then let's get started," d'Artagnan said and readjusted his weapon belt around his waist, "we need to be prepared for an attack at dawn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	6. Le Libre-Arbitre

**Chapter 6: Le Libre-Arbitre**

Athos got startled a few hours later when he heard heavy steps coming down the stairs. Judging by his inner clock, it was probably about one or two o'clock in the morning. When someone busted the door open, the others awoke as well. Aramis and Isko didn't get very much sleep, but Reive, Ria and Hugo jerked awake with surprised sounds escaping from their lips.

The guard that provided them with food earlier rushed through the doorway, gripping a torch with his right hand and holding the door open with the left.

Athos held his breath, his heart nervously pounding loudly in his chest, as he watched a tall figure with a red cloak enter the basement. Considering the odd behavior of the guards, that was probably the leader of them. Their Baron.

Athos had his difficulties to make out the man's features. The dusky light from the torch was the only source of light in this room. The Baron had longer, messy hair, hanging tousled over his shoulders. He sported a dark goatee and cold, blue eyes.

They all hauled themselves up in a standing position, awaiting the Baron and what he planned on doing. Except for Athos. He stayed exactly where he was, a subtle gesture of disrespect.

"Gentlemen," the Baron spoke. "Excuse my late intrusion, but I fear we don't have much time."

His voice was low, but the tone in it was sharp and haunting.

"If you're planning on selling us to the King in exchange for gold, I'm sorry we have to disappoint you," Aramis stated annoyed, "you won't succeed."

De Terré huffed a laugh.

"No, my apologies. Let's be honest here, the musketeer regiment lost their reputation at the court. The King seems to place his trust into other people these days. He won't pay a single coin for you."

True, Athos thought and he exchanged a quick look with Aramis. The King seemed to count more on Rochefort lately, using every occasion to point out how much the musketeers disappointed him again, no matter how much they succeeded.

"I'm going to make this very quick. You've probably heard of my unfortunate fight with the Baron de la Serre. I'm going to attack him tomorrow morning, and I'm going to expulse him from his estate. It's mine."

"Incredibly stupid and childish," Athos murmured in a sour tone.

The guard with the torch took a step forward.

"Be careful here, musketeer;" he shouted, "this is Baron Raston de Terré you are talking to."

Anger welled up in Athos.

"A title doesn't make any actions less stupid!" he shot back, but his voice was still controlled as usual.

For a second, nobody made a sound. The other prisoners gaped at Athos, not sure what they just heard, while Aramis watched the scene with a curious stare.

De Terré frowned, all of his attention on Athos, who glared at him with his usual, piercing and self-confident expression in his eyes.

"You know?" he snarled, "I heard the stories about a nobleman who gave up his lands to fight among the musketeers, under a different name." He frowned. "Your presence reminds me of this story."

Athos indifferently raised both eyebrows. "Interesting."

De Terré didn't dig any further, and Athos couldn't help but be a bit relieved. "What is it, by the way?"

Athos just stared at him expectantly.

"Your name," de Terré added, impatiently shifting from one foot to another, "Who are you?"

Athos remained silent, not sure whether it was a good idea. But, on the other hand, what would de Terré achieve by knowing their names?

"He's not going to ask again, _musketeer_," the guard spat, pronouncing the last word with so much contempt that Athos felt a shudder running down his back. The swordsman exchanged a quick look with Aramis. The other musketeer shrugged, his eyes glowing in the dark irresolutely.

"Athos," he eventually answered between clenched teeth.

De Terré nodded and pulled out a little dagger from his belt to point at his prisoners.

"So what do we got here?" he said, talking more to himself than to anyone in particular, "Athos, the musketeer. Ria, de la Serre's maid."

He wandered to the opposite cell and threw a glance at it.

"Musketeer! Your name."

"Aramis," came the short and annoyed answer.

De Terré nodded briefly and turned on the heel to point at Hugo with his dagger.

"They told me you are Hugo, de la Serre's lumberjack. But I don't know about you…"

He eyes Reive intensely. The boy stood at the bars, not twitching a single muscle.

"Leave him alone!" Isko yelled and slammed his fist against the robust iron.

De Terré flinched slightly and his attention was drawn to the giant man, who stood at the iron bars of the next cell, his fists clenched around the iron and with the most intimidating expression Athos had seen in a while.

"You, my friend," de Terré started and fidgeted with his dagger, "I remember you. In a fight about two weeks ago, you decimated the number of my men by eight. What's your name, bastard?"

"None of your business," Isko growled.

"I fear it is. This is your son, I am sure." He pointed at Reive and suddenly, he drew his pistol and leveled it at the boy. Isko tensed before he swallowed hard.

"Isko."

A broad and dangerous smile spread across the Baron's face and he turned to look at each of them separately.

"Alright. Let me get this straight. You three…," and he used his gun to point at Aramis, Isko and Athos, "are going to fight alongside my men tomorrow at dawn."

Athos' breath hitched as he stared at the Baron in disbelief.

"You want us to fight and kill de la Serre's men for you?" Aramis exclaimed and his voice was full of derision.

"That's quite right."

"You can't force us to," Athos interposed calmly, but on the inside, he knew he wasn't going to have a choice.

"I have his son," de Terré snarled triumphantly, and wavered the pistol dangerously into Reive's direction, causing Isko to pull so hard on his chain the attachment on the wall creaked awfully. "And I heard enough about you musketeers and the values you claim to stand up for that you are not letting innocent people pay for your ... neglect. That's why Ria and Hugo are also here."

Athos looked over to Aramis, whose lips trembled violently as he tried to control his anger.

"You wouldn't," the marksman eventually hissed.

"Ah, I expected you not to take this seriously," de Terré stated and straightened up inches in front of Aramis' and Isko's cell.

Suddenly he turned around, aimed his pistol and fired.

The sound was deafening in the closed and small basement, and echoed on and on. Athos waited a few seconds until he uncovered his ears again, staring in shock at what just happened.

Reive was lying on the ground, his hand clutched around his upper arm, where blood seeped through his fingers and stained the fabric of his shirt red. Isko was roaring, slamming against the bars, joggling them with so much violence Athos was surprised he didn't excavate the door.

Athos and Aramis both stared in shock at the young boy lying on the ground of his prison cell, Hugo kneeling down next to him, the hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

"You will fight for me. If I hear one word about you trying to escape or trying to turn against my men, I will make sure the next shot won't go in his arm. You would be outnumbered anyway."

De Terré watched as Hugo tore a piece of his clothing and pressed it on Reive's arm.

"You win this fight for me, or watch how I punish innocent people for your lack of cooperation," he continued, "and that may not be the only thing you'd have to endure. I only ask one little favor: demonstrate your fighting skills tomorrow morning."

He gave a signal with his hand and the three girls they saw earlier rushed in, each of them holding a small stack of clothing in their hands. De Terré took them and threw one to Athos, the other two into Isko's and Aramis' cell.

"Put this on. You are my mercenaries now, so I want you to look like them. See you tomorrow."

And he turned on the heel and stormed out of the door, the guards carefully following him before they slammed the door shut.

Athos watched as Aramis tried to calm Isko down, patting his shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly. Isko, until now seeming very calm and gentle to his friends, turned around and grabbed Aramis by the shoulders, their faces only inches apart.

"Promise me, you will do what they ask. Promise me!"

Aramis nodded slightly, and as Athos looked closely, he even looked a little bit scared. Not of Isko, but of what was to come.

"We do not have a choice, I fear," he responded, his voice quivering with sadness, "they are sending you against your own people. Rest assured Athos and I will do everything within our power for the least violent outcome."

Isko let go and sank against the bars, watching his son with a longing gaze.

Athos exchanged a knowing look with Aramis.

He and himself, they knew how to fight without killing another one. They had enough training lessons to do that. And Athos knew both of them were going to try that tomorrow, if they didn't find a way to free the hostages before. But about Isko, they weren't so sure. He was sent against his own people, but it was the life of his son that was threatened.

Athos sighed and ran a hand above his face, before he started to put on the clothes he had just been handed. They needed a solution. And they needed it fast.

**-MMMM-**

After about three hours of restless sleep, Athos awoke again, and he was greeted by Ria who offered him some water out of a can. He gratefully accepted and felt how the cold liquid restored the strength in his muscles and bones. Aramis and Isko were awake too. After de Terré had shot Reive, Aramis had been giving instructions to Hugo on how to treat the arm the best way, considering the possibilities they had down here. Now, both of them were leaning against the stone wall, and Athos could almost hear Aramis thinking intensely.

Both of them grew more nervous the longer they had to wait and the lesser time they had to come up with a solution. Athos had no idea how all of them could get out of this alive, so he decided to count on his ability to fight people without seriously harming them. Aramis would do the same. Isko – not so much. But Athos would feel better if he had an actual idea why de Terré declared war to this Baron de la Serre. Why he wanted to trample down and burn all of his lands, and fight all of his people. But he knew very well he was not in the position to ask.

Loud steps behind the doors announced the arrival of de Terré or his men, and Athos laboriously got up on his feet. Isko, Aramis and himself all wore the uniform of de Terré's mercenaries now, held in a dark grey. It had been quite a challenge to put on the corslet and the dark shirt above it thanks to their hands that were still shackles, but the profile of the clothing was made for that. Athos and Aramis' musketeer's pauldrons lay on the ground of their cells.

The door snapped open and de Terré entered, about six of his men behind him, all dressed in the same clothing, but with some sort of scarf disguising their faces.

When de Terré spotted Athos, Aramis and Isko, all standing up straight and wearing the clothes he gave them, he clapped his hands in an overjoyed manner.

"I see you decided to follow my instructions!" he exclaimed, his voice soaring an octave higher due to his obvious happiness.

Aramis snorted.

"You are making us choose between these people here, and the ones you want us to fight."

"That, musketeer, is true. But the way you are fighting de la Serre's men is up to you. All I want is winning this fight against de la Serre. I don't care how you do that. If you refuse to raise your sword against them, rest assured that your three cellmates here will not have a very pleasant or long stay here. The boy already doesn't look like he is enjoying this too much."

Isko growled, but thanks to a warning glare of Aramis, he kept quiet by the mention of his son, who lay sprawled across the floor of his cell, his face pale and his hand clutching his arm.

Aramis' eyes found Athos, and they came to a silent agreement. They were going to try everything to get all of them out of this unharmed. Even if they just gained a little bit more time by the end of the day would be considered a win. Maybe, during the battle, they were able to give the opponent, de la Serre's men, some information. But it had to be subtle. When that was noticed, who knew the outcome.

"Open the doors. And unshackle them," de Terré ordered.

Once two of the guards opened Athos' cell, one of them grabbed him tightly, while the other one undid the shackle around his wrist. He was shoved out of the cell and lined up next to Aramis and Isko, both flanked by two guards each.

"I'm sorry, but this is a measure I have to take," de Terré continued and the next moment, Athos felt a hand on his shoulders and he was gagged.

Same happened to Aramis and Isko, and Aramis' eyes squeezed shut as the gag strained the large bruising on his face.

"I can't let you spill information to my enemy, can I?" de Terré hissed and passed his mercenaries the same facial disguise they all wore and it was tied around the three prisoner's faces, leaving only the eyes exposed.

"I'd advice you not to take these off," de Terré snarled and Athos guessed he referred to the scarf around their faces. Well, his hands were free. He could undo it on the battlefield, but he guessed that de Terré would make sure he was watched every second.

All the men in the room now looked the same. Some were taller, some were broader, but all in all, no one was able to spot a difference. De Terré had his army, and he limited their personalities to two things: the hunger for money, and, in Athos', Isko's and Aramis' case, the sheer will to get everyone through this unscathed. That nobody had to pay for what they could refuse to do.

The two guards released the grip they had on Athos and handed him a weapon belt, equipped with his rapier and his dagger. With their faces disguised, and the weapons around their waist, they all looked the same, and more importantly, they all looked criminal. The holder for his pistol, however, was empty.

He raised a questioning eyebrow at de Terré and motioned to the missing pistol, since he was muted by the gag.

"That would be a risk for my men, Monsieur Athos," de Terré explained and turned around.

Athos shot Aramis an apologetic look and was surprised with the expression in his friend's one good eye he was greeted with. Under the blatant irritation was a small, but strong trace of fear creeping into the usually so fierce musketeer's eye.

Athos swallowed hard. This was not a situation they were used to. They have been beaten, captured, stabbed, shot. Separated, trapped and under fire. But they have never been slaves. They never had to shred their values, the values they have been taught their whole life, and who just grew stronger through the musketeer brotherhood.

Athos always claimed to stand up for his principles. That he served the King of France in the name of justice and to protect the country from all that wanted to bring it down on its knees. How could he still say that about himself after today? When he helped a madman to achieve his own, violent and immoral goals? When he was no better than the bandits he was arresting on a regular basis?

He closed his eyes and gathered himself, before he followed de Terré and his men out of the door, sensing Aramis behind him. He knew what he needed to try. And for the first time in a long time, Athos was honestly scared.

**-MMMM-**

Learning that most of the mercenaries in de Terré's self proclaimed army were red guards that were hired in exchange for a lot of money didn't help to lift the spirits of the two musketeers. They were lined up in safe cover of the trees. The three prisoners were held as far apart of each other as possible, with Isko on the outer left side, Aramis in the middle, and Athos on the right, surrounded by red guards, also wearing the same uniform. It bothered him that his mind was still foggy, and too slow for his liking. For the past day, he had tried to remember how they had been able to drug him, but he did not remember anything after he and the others had been in Tréville's office. Still, he tried to focus. He knew what he needed to do.

The farmers and villagers they were about to attack were safely hidden behind a self-made wall, consisting of old rocks and rotten, wooden piles and beams. This was a prepared battlefield, Athos had no doubt. The men of de la Serre had been warned and they had time to prepare. The villagers for sure had firearms, and they were just waiting for them to enter the open scenery. Every smart strategist would've retreated now, realizing that de Terré was clearly at disadvantage.

But de Terré wasn't such a man. He was blinded by his anger and wrath, for whatever the Baron de la Serre did to him.

"Attack!" he bellowed and pointed at the village with a sword drawn.

De Terré's henchmen didn't hesitate for a second and started to run. Athos was locked on the spot, his eyes wide as he just waited for the shots to ring out.

"Move!" one of the disguised red guards shouted and pushed him forward. Athos stumbled through the mud but he regained his balance and joined the charge with a heavy heart.

The first row of henchmen was felled immediately by the rain of bullets. The villagers knew how to aim, or perhaps de la Serre had also hired soldiers from Paris. The red guards and everyone else who owned a pistol returned the fire, and they all used that opportunity to run towards the wall. Athos heard someone shouting commands behind the wall and within seconds, the men and women of de la Serre jumped over the barricade and drew their rapiers.

Athos took a split second to have a look at the defenders of the village. There were mostly civilians, armed with rusted blades and pistols, but they were swinging their blades as if they had practice. Even the red guards were surprised.

A man in front of Athos was attacked by a woman, and she fought and handled her sword so quickly that the red guard didn't even had the slightest chance. He went to the ground with blood seeping from a deep wound to the chest, his eyes staring up disbelievingly to the woman. She finished him with a fierce yell before she came running at Athos with a sword risen above her head.

Please don't, Athos thought, not wanting to fight against these people. The woman might be good, but he knew that he was better and far more experienced with a sword.

He made a step to the side before he drew his weapon, because he saw no other chance on how to parry her forceful and fast attacking blows. He immediately went into defensive mode, not wanting to hurt the lady, and he blocked all of her attacks with ease.

He spotted de Terré's most loyal henchmen, his bodyguard or whatsoever, about ten feet away, finishing his duel with a firing of his pistol. His eyes locked on Athos and he froze in his movements, noticing the little effort the musketeer made to bring this battle to an end.

He gave Athos a stare that spoke volumes, and Athos knew that if he didn't act right now, someone innocent might pay for it.

The woman launched another attack at him, and this time, Athos didn't raise his sword to block it. He dove underneath the blade and made a wide and quick step to the side, before he grabbed her sword-arm, wrenched it until she dropped the blade and dropped on her knees with a guttural scream.

"I'm sorry," Athos tried to say, but all that made it through the gag were muffled words, not comprehensive for anyone. She stayed on her knees, her eyes shut in pain and her hand clamped around her shoulder.

Athos' eyes found the bodyguard again. He granted him a small and satisfied nod.

The musketeer growled, the guilt and sadness about the current situation wrapping his mind in a cold embrace.

Before he had the chance to catch his breath, he was nearly overrun by two men at once. They attacked from two directions, but Athos, thanks to all these years of training, blocked their swords with facility.

The feeling inside that told him how wrong it was what he was doing here was now dominated by the sheer will to survive, and to manage not to be impaled by one of those rusty blades they kept swinging at him.

Athos landed a shot on one of the man's shoulder, nothing more than a shallow cut, but it was enough to startle his opponent. With one precise punch against the chin, the man was knocked out and he collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

The second opponent was a little harder to fight. He danced around Athos with so much agility that it was hard for Athos to realize that this was nothing more but a farmer who had been instructed in how to use a rapier.

With a trick he had been practicing with d'Artagnan a lot, Athos was able to slap the weapon out of his hand and force the man down to his knees. He planned to leave it like this, and not to knock him out or do something else that might incapacitate the poor man for the rest of the day.

But before he had the chance to move in any direction, a sharp pain exploded in his head and he saw stars as something hit him hard against the head from behind. His descent to the ground was immediate and the impact of the fall drew all the air out of his lungs. A foot on his wrist made him lose grip of his sword.

His vision was blurred, and his hearing muffled. He noticed the fuzzy outline of a man towering over him. It was that exact moment Athos knew he was defeated. The numbness spread from his mind into his entire body, and he could do nothing but wait for the man who brought him down to make the final strike.

His mind, even though it was fogged, processed a lot of thoughts at once.

Of all the different scenarios he had pictured of how he would go down one day, alone among the lines of immoral men, extradited to the mercy of a man he would've stood up for under different circumstances, wasn't one of them.

He always thought he would go down side by side with a brother, or to protect the life of one of them.

For the King.

For France.

Not like this. Not without any honor, not without a cause.

Now he lay here in the mud, the moments passing by slowly, all alone. Aramis wasn't there, probably fighting his own battle right now. Maybe he fell too. He was alone, and in a position he never wanted to be in.

According to his own moral code, he should've helped the vulnerable, the one being mistreated by justice. Now he was felled by one of them, and the worst part of it was that the world was going to think he fought for a violent madman with no honor.

He had failed Tréville. He had failed Porthos and d'Artagnan who would never understand how he ended up here. He had failed Aramis, leaving him alone in the hands of a cruel lunatic.

_Please don't think wrong of me. I didn't mean to. I had no choice._

Athos now was able to see the blurred features of the man above him raise his sword above his head, preparing for the last strike. Muffled voices reached his ears, yelling, and another silhouette entered his view, shouting at the man, but Athos wasn't able to make out what they were saying. His lids grew heavy as the pain in his head became unbearable.

He didn't see the blade crashing down.


	7. The Bloodied Soil

**Chapter 7: The Bloodied Soil**

It was one of the hardest things Aramis ever had to do. To raise his sword against those who he had sworn to protect when he had always claimed he'd stand up for justice. He didn't know why de Terré had declared war against the Baron de la Serre, but he had enough knowledge of this man to know that capturing and shooting children weren't characteristics of a man who had any morality left. It didn't matter what de la Serre did to him. It could never be good enough for an excuse.

Until now, he had successfully defended himself against three men at once, without hurting them too much and without taking away injuries himself. Putting his swollen eye aside. His vision was limited to one eye, and the gag pulled on the deeply bruised side of his face without mercy. But it all went well so far. So far, nobody had been injured.

He dodged the attack of a young and fierce woman, disarmed her of her pistol and threw it far away into the woods in his back. The woman, faster than Aramis had expected, was able to land a punch at his already damaged right side of his face, and he stumbled backwards as he struggled to keep his balance. But he was prepared for the next attack and with two quick moves, he brought her down on her knees. She immediately fell into a mediating position, her hands folded together in front of her as she begged him and God for mercy.

Aramis' heart was heavy as he watched the scene so he just shoved her to the ground, knowing de Terré was watching him from behind, ready to take any measures necessary if one of the musketeers didn't cooperate the way he wanted them to.

Another man leapt at him, an old farmer, and Aramis had no problem at all to avoid his blade. He took him by the wrist, whirled him around and held the man in a headlock, his mind desperately trying to come up with a solution that would get the both of them out of this unharmed. His one eye frantically searched the area, panicking as he expected someone to attack him from behind. Suddenly, the man he held in a headlock fell to the ground, unconscious.

Aramis took a step back, and all instincts in him told him to check the man, to make sure he was alive and well. But he couldn't, feeling the vicious baron's stare behind him.

A guttural scream pierced the air and Aramis turned around to search for its source.

One of de Terré's henchmen tore on the arm and shoulder of a young boy, not older than sixteen. The boy was obviously defeated, but the man didn't let go, apparently enjoying the power he had there.

Aramis threw a quick glance over to de Terré, who was distracted as he was attacked by one big man. Aramis thought he recognized the figure, it had something familiar in its appearance, but at that distance and with only one good eye he couldn't be sure.

So he drew his dagger, before making sure that nobody watched him that could report his treason to the Baron later. He approached the man torturing the boy from behind, and raised his arm with the dagger in order to free the boy from his tormenter.

He hit forward with his blade in his hand, but the last second, the man made a step to the side as he let go of the boy. But Aramis was too late to stop his movement.

The blade found its target. Aramis felt the dagger cut through fabric and flesh, and pierce through the muscles as well. The musketeer watched with horror as the boy's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream that never escaped. The boy fell on his knees, breathing heavily through the pain.

The man Aramis had meant to stab put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly as if to say thank you, before Aramis heard him run away, looking for another duel to fight. Aramis felt sick as he grabbed the boy by the shirt in order to hold him steady.

He wanted to apologize, or to comfort the boy, but not a single word escaped his gagged mouth. His eyes were locked on the boy, whose eyes were wet, unshed tears pooling there. A yell broke through the silence that had settled in Aramis mind and he was knocked off his feet the next second when a man tackled him and pinned him to the ground with a furious look on his face.

He felt hands around his neck, but it took a second for Aramis to understand that he needed to act when he wanted to survive here. With the hilt of his knife he hit the man against the side of his head and he crumbled to the ground. Aramis jumped up quickly and brought a safe distance between the two of them, but the man stayed on the ground, groaning and mumbling something incomprehensible in his pain.

A thought passed his mind. He could do it. He could use his sword, cut the disguise and the gag on his face and run.

He would be free.

But he felt the stare of de Terré in his back, even though he didn't see him.

Yes, he could run now, but at what cost? Ria, Hugo, Reive. They would all pay for his selfishness.

And he couldn't leave without Athos.

Aramis' eyes searched the battlefield for any signs of Athos. He found him rather quickly. Even though they all looked the same, it was the way the man moved and fought that made Aramis assume it was Athos. He had practiced enough years with his comrade to recognize these mannerisms within seconds.

Athos seemed to fight two men at once, and Aramis realized he too was careful, and trying not to hurt these people if it could've been avoided. He watched as Athos knocked out one of the two and disarmed the other one.

Aramis spotted another man approaching from behind, a man in noble clothing, with a thin cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Aramis tried to yell a warning to Athos, but he was way too far away.

He could do nothing but watch as his friend fell to the ground and the nobleman raised his sword for the final strike. Aramis started to run, to make his way through between the various people engaged in combat, in order to reach Athos in time.

If he only had his pistol. He could've saved Athos. For the first time, he didn't care if this nobleman was innocent or not. He had to choose: the nobleman or Athos. His feet flew over the ground. He watched another man rushing to the nobleman, grabbing him by the sword-arm, talking to him insistently.

All Aramis was able to make out were blurred outlines of men, and Athos, lying on the ground, not moving and waiting for the blade to come.

Aramis was too far away. His vision might be blurred, but he was able to make out the sword clashing down clear enough, skewering Athos through the chest. He stumbled in his running, a scream of despair, dimmed by the gag, escaping his throat once he realized what he had just witnessed.

He felt like falling, his knees buckling as the world around him suddenly went silent. He had not been able to save him. He hadn't been able to save Athos.

A weird numbness spread through his body, to disguise the unbearable pain his heart was trying to contain. His mind wasn't able to process this, his soul didn't know what to feel.

Icy shock ran through his body, and it felt as if claws were tearing at his heart, shredding it into tiny pieces.

And suddenly there was anger. White, hot wrath. Who was the anger flowing through his veins directed at? The men who killed Athos or the men who made him fight like an attack dog?

Athos. His friend, his brother. He needed to be by his side. To be a comforting presence.

Aramis started running again, time passing by way too slowly. A gunshot thundered through the air and tore through the silence that had lulled Aramis' head. About twenty feet away, a small explosion rocked the area, and flames engulfed everything within a ten feet range.

But Aramis' eyes were locked on the form of Athos, the two figures still by his side.

Suddenly, he was yanked back.

"Retreat!" a loud voice shouted and the sounds of the battlefield blazed their way into Aramis' senses.

One of de Terré's men had a firm grip on his shoulder, and held him back. Aramis struggled, and punched the man as he was trying to make his way through to Athos, but the red guard in disguise restrained him. He followed Aramis' gaze and understood.

"There is nothing you can do!" he yelled over the noise and started to try to drag Aramis backwards into the safe cover of the trees.

"Leave … me!" Aramis growled through the gag, not giving up so easily.

The guard grabbed him by the collar and shouted into his ear.

"He is gone. There is nothing you can do anymore, musketeer. But you can still save the innocent people in de Terré's cellar, just do as he wishes!"

Aramis was sure to hear compassion in the red guard's voice.

_They've really come a long way._

Aramis still struggled, but his defense grew weaker as he surrendered to the hold of the guard.

His eyes wandered from Athos to the form of the boy he had accidentally stabbed, lying on the ground in a prone position, the farmer he had fought earlier by his side.

Guilt stabbed Aramis through his heart. Guilt that he might've killed the boy. Guilt that he didn't stand by his brother's side in the moment of need. But his mind, his mind was empty. He was numb as he was trying to process the events of the last minutes, and he couldn't contain the emotions running through his body, he couldn't even name them.

He surrendered to the guard, and vaguely registered another man helping the guard to drag him away, back to the estate of de Terré.

De Terré had lost the battle, which was good. But Aramis had lost so much more.

**-MMMM-**

It was good that they had been prepared, d'Artagnan deemed. They used the old trick with barrels of inflammable alcohol buried in the ground so they could build a wall of flames as their last defense.

D'Artagnan had been careful during battle. The men of de Terré had attacked at dawn, just like they had been told. It was an intimidating entry they made. His men looked like a personal army, all dressed the same, and everyone had a masked face. D'Artagnan knew that de Terré must've been aware of the muskets de la Serre's people possessed and now aimed at his men, still, he charged into battle without caution. It was no wonder that the first row of attackers was felled immediately by a rain of bullets Porthos and d'Artagnan gave the signal to.

Once the attackers got very close, d'Artagnan gave the signal for the combat. The most skilled people and the most promising farmers, male and female, jumped over the barricade with drawn weapons. D'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a quick nod before they joined the battle too.

D'Artagnan was very careful. He was good with a sword, but he tried to keep his duels going as long as possible, studying his enemy before he decided how to proceed with them. By the way they were moving or the way they yelled insults at him he chose how hard he was going to fight against him. Some he treated like common bandits, others who fought bravely and with respect, he tried not to harm too seriously.

All in all, the battle was rather even.

After he felled another opponent, he stood up straight, catching his breath and collecting his main gauche he lost minutes before. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Porthos running towards a man seated on his horse in safe cover of the trees, and d'Artagnan guessed that could be the Baron de Terré. But de Terré fled to another side of the battlefield, leaving Porthos to deal with his bodyguards.

To his right, d'Artagnan noticed Claude, knocking an attacker against the head, hard enough that the man went down at an instant, lying sprawled on the ground in utter defeat.

D'Artagnan watched how Claude stared at him for a second, a calm but dangerous expression in his eyes, before he raised his sword. D'Artagnan hesitated for a split second, but then he ran towards the young noble, grabbing the sword arm tightly and facing him with their faces only inches apart.

"Don't!" he shouted at Claude, his voice loud enough to dominate the noise of the battle.

Claude's eyes wandered up and he met d'Artagnan's imploring glare with an angry expression, as if to question the Gascon's sanity.

"He's one of them!" Claude retorted wildly, not moving his sword an inch.

"And he is defeated!" d'Artagnan growled with as much of a musketeer's authority as he could muster, "You are not an executioner. If you do that, you are not better than the immoral man you claim to fight."

Claude stared back at him, before his eyes hesitantly wandered down to the masked man lying on the ground, whose eyes were already closed as the hit against the head seemed to have knocked him unconscious.

But the nobleman still locked very determined to end his battle the dirty way.

"I did what you asked!" d'Artagnan yelled in a desperate attempt to appeal at the young man's conscience. "Porthos and I, we helped you in your time of need. Now it's your turn to keep your end of the bargain. You promised us help to find our friends. Making prisoners and asking them could be a help!"

Claude's hands trembled with anger, and he let out a frustrated scream, which sounded very intimidating, before he rammed the sword down into the ground. It impaled the sticky ground and missed the man's chest only by a hair's breadth.

D'Artagnan exhaled in relief and patted Claude's shoulder in a thankful gesture.

A deafening sound tore through the air and d'Artagnan noticed Dorian de la Serre had shot one of the barrels they had hidden beneath the dirt and mud. The explosion was minor, but it was enough to name the winner of the battle.

De Terré's men began to retreat, and de la Serre's people chased them until all of the enemies vanished behind the tree line.

His eyes searched the battlefield, and he noticed the miller of the village crouching over a still form on the ground.

"Go!" Claude said as he followed the musketeer's gaze, "I'll have the prisoners secured."

D'Artagnan nodded thankfully and rushed over to the old man, who was desperately keeping pressure on Jorac's shoulder with a cloth. Jorac's face was ashen, but his eyes were wide open, his lips trembling with fear.

D'Artagnan fell on his knees next to the old man and gently took the cloth from his shaky fingers.

"Let me see…," he said with a soft voice and kindly asked the father to let go of his son.

The man obeyed and made space for d'Artagnan, but he didn't leave his child's side.

D'Artagnan tried to wipe enough of the blood away to have a closer look at the wound. It was a stab wound, not too deep, but long and uneven. D'Artagnan cursed.

"The wound needs stitching, and it needs it fast," he said as he turned to the man and tilted his head into the mansion's direction. "Help me carry him there."

The miller didn't hesitate for a second and wrapped his arms around his son's middle before he and d'Artagnan lifted him up and carefully started to drag him to the mansion.

Halfway there, he noticed Porthos approaching from behind the flames that still burned. The older musketeer looked a bit battered, but all in all, he seemed fine.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos exclaimed once he spotted him, "Thank God you are alright."

The Gascon returned the crooked smile, but Porthos' faded as his eyes fell on Jorac.

"What happened to him?"

"Stab wound," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath as they continued to drag the poor boy forward. "It needs stitching."

"Well, that's what we have Aramis for usually. Damn it."

"My thoughts exactly," d'Artagnan retorted dryly. "He showed me once or twice. But I am not even half as experienced in stitching as he is."

"You'll do it. Wait…," Porthos replied and motioned them to stop. With a swift movement, he scooped the half-conscious boy in his strong arms. "Where?"

D'Artagnan pointed to the mansion.

Porthos and d'Artagnan hurried over to the large entrance, sensing the miller's presence closely behind them. Porthos lay Jorac down at a large table nearby, shooing away all the staff of the Baron.

While d'Artagnan rushed to the cellar to get some alcohol, Porthos prepared the needle he received from one of the servants of the Baron.

D'Artagnan rejoined him half a minute later with a bottle of strong alcohol in his hands.

Porthos handed him the needle, before he rounded the table and pinned the boy to it.

The tall musketeer granted d'Artagnan a comforting gaze through his dark, brown eyes.

"You got this."

D'Artagnan nodded slowly and took a deep breath to calm himself, before he started.

**-MMMM-**

About an hour later, d'Artagnan cleaned his hands in a bowl of water one of de la Serre's housekeepers brought them.

Jorac was lying on the table, unconscious, but the wound was closed neatly. He felt the father's questioning stare in his back.

"He should be better when he wakes up. For now, he needs to rest," he said over his shoulder. D'Artagnan used some of the water to refresh his face, rubbing it over his tired eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

"Doesn't get any easier, does it?" Porthos stated matter-of-factly and threw him a compassionate glance.

D'Artagnan sighed.

"I don't know how Aramis manages to stay so calm and focused. My nerves were on the edge the last hour."

"Well, it took Aramis some years too. You did good, whelp!" Porthos grunted and patted his arm in sympathy.

They both jumped in surprise as the door was busted open and a whirlwind that turned out to be Claude de la Serre rushed in. His arm was pressed against his body as if it was hurting and Porthos' and d'Artagnan's senses were on high alert within a second.

"What happened?" Porthos asked urgently and hurried over to the nobleman.

Claude gathered himself, looking absolutely out of breath and in a hurry.

"We could use your help. One of the prisoners is out of control. My men are having trouble controlling him. You should come before anyone else gets hurt."

D'Artagnan glanced at Jorac lying on the table, checking him all over and signaling his father he would be back soon. The miller nodded before his attention returned to his son.

D'Artagnan snatched his weapon belt from the chair he threw it onto earlier just in case it was needed.

"Lead the way!"


	8. Prisoner in Disguise

**Chapter 8: Prisoner in Disguise**

D'Artagnan and Porthos followed Claude outside, and they headed after him to the tavern where they apparently had brought the prisoners.

"How many prisoners do we have?" Porthos asked.

"Three," Claude replied, "Two of them are bound tightly and under control. The third one awoke five minutes ago and he went crazy."

A loud crashing sound resounded from the tavern and they were able to make out male voices shouting and one or two women screaming.

D'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a quick look before they ran to the door and burst it open. They nearly tripped over two men lying on the ground, obviously beaten up by somebody. The people of the village were crowded in the corners of the room. The center seemed to have turned into a fighting ring.

Three men were down, all de la Serre's men, rolling on the ground and moaning in pain. Gustav was the last man standing, fighting with his fist against the still hooded prisoner.

_Why hasn't he been secured properly?_ d'Artagnan asked himself before he was spurred into action. Gustav took a punch against the jaw and was sent reeling backwards.

The prisoner stumbled and blinked multiple times as if to clear his vision, apparently still affected from the head injury he had suffered from Claude's hands. But it seemed to be sheer anger that kept him going. Porthos grabbed him from behind and was met with a vicious kick against the knee and an elbow in the face, which the big musketeer only avoided because he tilted his head sideways last second.

Gustav attacked again, wrapped his strong arms around the man's arms and chest and gestured d'Artagnan he could use some help as the prisoner was still struggling, damped shouts escaping behind the disguise. D'Artagnan rushed forward and secured the prisoners legs before Gustav hauled him onto the ground where he and Porthos pinned him down.

D'Artagnan towered over the prisoner and for the first time, the prisoner's wild eyes stopped moving and focused onto one of them. The moment he spotted d'Artagnan, he went completely still, his body no longer resisting the treatment of Porthos and Gustav to his sides, low and unclear sounds coming from behind the mask.

It didn't fit. And d'Artagnan felt truly uncomfortable under the prisoner's stare, since it felt so oddly familiar.

"Wait!" he interfered and crouched next to Porthos, "something's not right."

"Secure the prisoner!" Claude ordered from behind but d'Artagnan raised a hand.

"No!"

Claude looked startled and a little offended at the resistance d'Artagnan was showing him, but a strange feeling in his gut told the Gascon it wasn't all how it seemed to be here.

The prisoner was completely calm, but breathing heavily under his disguise, his eyes now wandering between d'Artagnan and Porthos. D'Artagnan knew that look. And he acted immediately.

With one swift movement, he tore the disguise from the man's face and revealed the angry red and exhausted face of a gagged Athos.

He felt Porthos shrinking back beside him. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed and pushed Gustav out of the way as he lifted Athos' body a little bit up so d'Artagnan could undo the knot behind Athos' head. Once it was loose, Athos started choking and rolled onto his side, spitting and retching in order to get some fluid back into his mouth.

"I need some water!" d'Artagnan commanded and took it out of a young lady's hand and handed it to Athos. "Careful!" he warned his comrade as he started to take quick but long sips from the mug, dumping the rest of it over his face.

Then he just lay there for a few seconds, collecting his breath, and he winced as he finally started to sit up. D'Artagnan offered him a hand, but Athos declined and slid backwards until his back rested against the feet of a table.

D'Artagnan stared at him in shock, and with a side glance at Porthos he noticed Porthos didn't look any better.

"Where…am I?" Athos asked his comrades, his voice sore and sounding very raspy.

"My father's estate, the Baron de la Serre…," Claude jumped in before he turned to d'Artagnan and Porthos. "What is your musketeer friend from the tavern in Paris doing in the army of the Baron de Terré?"

D'Artagnan rose to his feet in his anger, but Porthos' response was quicker.

"Can't you see he was gagged?" Porthos snapped before he offered Athos a goblet of wine the other musketeer gratefully accepted.

"You said it yourself de Terré might have my friends and he might use them for his cause. Don't act all this surprised!" d'Artagnan spat with very little respect.

Claude raised an eyebrow at the amount of hate directed towards him, but he kept his mouth shut.

"What are you two doing here?" Athos asked after he took a deep sip out of the goblet, "We were relying on you to get us out of there."

Porthos exchanged a quick look with d'Artagnan, before he answered.

"We were involuntarily introduced to the other party of this dispute. De la Serre's men took me and d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan told me you vanished from Paris as well, and the chances that you were at de Terré's were rather high."

"We thought questioning the prisoners might be a start. We didn't expect you to be one of them," d'Artagnan added. His heart grew heavy as he recalled all the hooded mercenaries he fought earlier. How many of them didn't have a choice? How many of them were innocent?

"I see," Athos mumbled and briefly closed his eyes, "but I sense you are not forced to act here."

Porthos shook his head.

"No. They gave us a choice. They begged for our help, but we were free to go home."

"Something tells me you didn't have that choice…," Claude remarked, "I'm sorry for…well you know for this."

He motioned to the wound at the side of Athos' head, still covered in dried blood from the hard hit he had taken. Athos just glared at him, his eyes giving away nothing.

"Are you the only one who was fighting alongside de Terré's men today?" d'Artagnan asked, even though he kind of already knew the answer.

Athos shook his head, grumbling quietly as it worsened his headache. He pointed at the other two prisoners that were draped in the corner, also wearing their masks, watching the scene in silent observation. D'Artagnan hurried over and snatched the disguises from their faces, but they weren't gagged. He was just greeted with a sour expression on both of their faces.

"Red guards," Athos explained, "de Terré hired them from Paris in exchange for gold."

"Isn't that what he wanted to do with you as well?" Porthos asked, "Trading you for the King's gold?"

Athos grumpily shook his head again, before he stretched out a hand. Porthos took it and gently hauled his friend onto his feet. Athos swayed dangerously and clawed on Porthos' forearm for support.

"Th...oth'...we have...," he murmured absent-mindedly.

"What?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Aramis," Athos repeated and his eyes locked on Porthos'.

"Was he with you?" Porthos replied impatiently.

"He and I and a man named Isko were the ones from our prison that were forced to fight for de Terré. They were all on the battlefield today."

"Isko?" Gustav chimed in and grabbed Athos by the shoulder.

"Your brother, I assume," Athos said, "You two look exactly the same."

"Is he alright?" Gustav demanded to know, not letting go of Athos' shoulder. The swordsman shrugged.

"We were kept at different parts of the formation. I don't know what happened to them."

Porthos locked his hand around Gustav's arm and guided it away from Athos' shoulder, knowing how much his friend disliked any kind of physical contact from strangers.

"How could they make you do this?" d'Artagnan asked, speaking out what everybody of the people assembled in this room were thinking, "Why did you fight for them?"

"They have hostages," Athos explained tiredly and leaned heavily against a wooden beam, "We had no choice or he was going to kill them. He already shot the poor boy into the arm when we didn't take the threat seriously."

"Wait, Reive?" Gustav asked, horror written all over the face.

Athos nodded.

"He lived the last time we saw him. But de Terré is not someone to doubt. He is a man of his word."

"That much I figured…," Porthos murmured.

"And you thought killing other men instead would be the solution?" Claude asked with the authority of a nobleman, but he didn't have the temper of Athos on his account.

Athos rushed forward and grabbed him by the collar, even with the lack of strength he had at the moment.

"Aramis and I, we agreed we wouldn't harm anyone seriously. We just tried to survive. I didn't kill a single man."

"Whoa, easy…," Porthos interrupted and put a hand on Athos' shoulder, "let 'im go."

Athos stared at Claude for a brief second with a wrath in his eyes d'Artagnan never wished to see there again, but he let go. D'Artagnan noticed the crowd still observing everything with curious eyes, so he turned to them.

"Go, repair the damage, help the wounded. You have better things to do right now than to watch us." He usually didn't get this angry, but all the events of the last hours, fighting the battle, stitching Jorac and finding out he may have fought or harmed a brother today led to this outbreak and he shooed them away.

"What do we do now?" he asked and his gaze wandered over Porthos and Athos.

Athos took a deep sip out of the goblet of wine again and his eyes met d'Artagnan's, his usual so indifferent expression now shrouded by sorrow.

"As much as I hate to say it, but we should check on the fallen."

"What for?" Porthos asked, completely lost in his own thoughts.

"Aramis" d'Artagnan and Athos replied simultaneously.

D'Artagnan couldn't interpret the look Porthos gave him now, but the tall musketeer was the first one to run back outside and onto the field the battle had raged not too long ago.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope we don't find him," d'Artagnan murmured and bit his lip, before he followed Porthos outside.

**-MMMM-**

Aramis was dragged by the two guards all the way back to the estate of de Terré, and he spotted Isko, flanked by two other mercenaries, not far away from him. They stopped at the small square in front of the mansion and seemed to wait for something.

The thundering of hooves announced the arrival of the Baron. He was on top of a white horse, and accompanied by two of his bodyguards as well as a fourth man, wearing a large, dark grey hood that plunged his face into shadows. His clothing looked a lot like a cowl, and the large, wooden cross hanging from a pendant around his neck confirmed his activity in a spiritual occupation.

De Terré jumped from his horse and handed his horse's reins to one of his henchmen. He made his way over to Aramis and Isko, searching his men for any kind of information.

"Where is the third one?" he asked, his voice strident with anger.

He paced in front of them and Aramis did nothing, his head sunken on his chest and staring at the dirt. The only thing that kept him upright right now was the firm grip of the hired red guards behind him.

De Terré identified Isko, which was not very difficult due to his height and physical appearance, so he then strode over to Aramis.

"Where is the other one?" de Terré addressed him.

Aramis closed his eye for a brief second, before he focused his one good eye back on de Terré, meeting his questioning glare with an empty gaze.

"'e 'll…" he murmured.

"Bloody hell, can somebody please take the gag off?" de Terré exclaimed frustrated and Aramis felt absolutely relieved when he was finally freed of the gag and the disguise.

"He fell" he repeated again, his voice nothing more but a hoarse whisper.

De Terré put a hand under Aramis' jaw and forced his head back up, making the marksman wince as it strained his bruised and broken face. De Terré eyed him intensely, as if he tried to tell whether Aramis was speaking the truth or not. Aramis still looked on the ground, his face was empty of any emotion.

"He fell?" de Terré echoed mockingly and stared at him disbelievingly, "And I am supposed to believe that? You think I'm so stupid and don't realize that your friend is now trying to give my enemy all the information he needs?" De Terré drew the pistol from his belt and motioned to his guards to bring somebody forward. With a heavy heart, Aramis recognized Ria, the maid. De Terré leveled his gun at her.

"Your friend is going to see what his foolish plan will cost."

"We fought for you!" Aramis retorted through gritted teeth, "We did all you asked. You are paranoid. My friend was a man of his word after all. He wasn't stupid, he knew you would stay true to your word. He would've never risked the lives of innocent people. How dare you to think so?"

"And I am just supposed to believe that, am I?" de Terré shot back and didn't lower his weapon an inch.

Aramis' brain worked rapidly, trying to think of the right words to say right now as he witnessed the life of an innocent woman being threatened because the Baron refused to believe in Athos' intentions.

"Sir, if I may…," the red guard behind Aramis stepped forward, "he is telling the truth. I saw the musketeer being killed by the blade of de la Serre's son with my own eyes."

De Terré bristled with anger, but he lowered his weapon and gestured his guards to bring Ria somewhere else. He granted Aramis a doubtful gaze, before he took a few steps back and clapped his hands.

"Gentleman, I watched you doing what I asked of you today. You did win a lot of combats against de Terré's men. But I am going to release you once my feud with de la Serre is settled once and for all. I promise."

It was an empty promise. And Aramis knew that. He would never be released by the doing of de Terré. He had to help himself, or to hope d'Artagnan and Porthos would somehow discover his and Athos' trace.

The images of the sword clashing down on Athos' still form flashed through his head and he flinched violently at the memory and guilt wrapped its cold and sharp arms around his heart. He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed him and Isko being thrown back into the cells. The iron shackle was applied to his wrist and he was back in the same situation as he was hours before.

It's just that he abandoned Athos. And he would never forgive himself for that. But foremost, he would never forgive the madman who was responsible for this. Aramis clenched his teeth. He would have his revenge. Not today, maybe not tomorrow. But if de Terré thought he could keep Aramis under control when he had not too much to lose, he was terribly mistaken.

**-MMMM-**

De Terré watched with a satisfied expression as his men threw the musketeer and the warrior back into the cells. He had the other prisoners, the girl, the old man and the boy, brought up into the village's tavern. They were still captives, and they were still secured with a chain on their wrists, but Raston de Terré felt merciful today. He would give them something to drink, some food and some company. And, more importantly, he would have an eye on them himself if somebody maybe tried to mount a glorious rescue.

He turned on the heel and noticed his uncle approaching him silently, and when he stood before the Baron, he took of his hood.

"Those were the last two prisoners you have?"

De Terré nodded.

"What, you are not content with them?" he responded quick-tempered and he felt anger flashing through him.

"You actually managed to make them fight for you," his uncle replied with a calm and indifferent voice.

"You want to know how I did that?" de Terré asked impatiently, wanting to tell his uncle about his strategy until now.

The man in his huge cloak shook his head.

"No. I am a priest. I think it's better if I am not aware of some of your scheming."

De Terré groaned, but he accepted.

"So, you got their names?" his uncle asked and raised a questioning eyebrow.

De Terré nodded.

"Yes. The warrior is Isko, and the one remaining musketeer goes under the name Aramis. The one that fell was Athos."

To his content, a thin but promising grin passed over his uncle's face.

"Come here, my child. I think I can help you with this. I do have some information about this Aramis that might be useful for you. But you need to promise me, in the name of the cardinal, that you will not share this with anyone else. Are we clear?"

De Terré nodded, his curiosity enflamed by his uncle's words.

"In that case, listen closely."


	9. What do you stand for?

**Chapter 9: What do you stand for?**

"Captain!"

Tréville's head shot up as he heard Clément's voice right outside the stables. Tréville had been interrogating the woman, Inès, under the strict watch of Constance. He asked to be excused and left them alone to meet his recruit outside.

"What is it? Any news?"

Clément shook his head.

"There are two red guards waiting at the gates. They say they have orders from Rochefort."

Tréville groaned and gritted his teeth. Whatever Rochefort wanted now, he didn't have the time or the nerves for it. The captain gently shoved Clément to the side and made his way over to the garrison's gates to the two members of the red guard who awaited him impatiently.

"What?" he barked impolitely and he could swear he saw the two men flinching at his words. One of them was holding a box, the other one a sealed letter.

"From the Comte de Rochefort," one of the guards stuttered and held out the letter.

Tréville eyed him skeptically and snatched the paper out of his hands before ripping it open. His eyes flew over the paper, and with each line, the captain's face grew darker.

"This is a joke, right?" he asked the guard who looked truly scared of the captain.

"We were told these are your orders, Monsieur Tréville."

"It's Captain Tréville. I was exempted by the King himself so I can take care of my own business. And now Rochefort needs help in his goddamned paper-work?"

The guard handed the box to Clément.

"The comte's office has been flooded with demands and letters since yesterday. He also said he is inclined to offer you some help in your…" The guard cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "…musketeer business."

Tréville bristled with anger, and his hands trembled dangerously as he was resisting the urge to beat the nervous smile off the guard's face.

"Out." He growled.

None of them moved.

"I said get out!" he roared and made a large step forward, his authority towering over the two guards, who fled immediately from the captain's wrath.

Tréville turned to Clément.

"Get that into my office."

Clément nodded and turned on the heel, hurrying up the steps to the office.

Tréville sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"Captain?" A musketeer called Guillaume approached from the courtyard, another folded letter in his hands.

"I know this might not be the best time, but this was submitted for you this morning by a man named Jacques Milliers."

Tréville growled and snatched the letter out of Guillaume's hands. He had more important things to take care of than stupid paper-work. The letter only consisted of a small paragraph.

__

_Captain Tréville of the King's musketeers,_

_I had the honor of talking to one of your musketeers yesterday, as he was inspecting a crime scene. During the crime he was inspecting, there has been severe damage at my wife's market which secures about half of our income. Your musketeer told me you would take care of that business. I'd be grateful if you could send someone, since the young musketeer took off very quickly and didn't show up again. I think this is business that might interest you. I put my address down below._

_Respectfully,_

_Jacques Milliers_

Every single alarm bell in Tréville's mind rang as he read the letter again. This may be the trace to d'Artagnan.

"Guillaume!"

The musketeer looked up to his captain.

"There is a box in my office with a lot of letters considering royal business. You are not authorized, but I give you my permission to work through these letters, let me know if there is anything unusual you notice. Don't tell anyone about what you are doing!"

Guillaume looked confused, but he lifted his head in response and made his way up the stairs. Tréville turned to search the courtyard, his mind anxious to find a trace to one of his missing soldiers. It's been nearly two days since they vanished.

"Someone get me a horse!"

**-MMMM-**

Aramis and Isko, currently being the only ones in the cellar, spent the next two hours in absolute silence, each man busy containing his own thoughts. It was Isko in the cell next to him who finally broke the silence.

"I'm sorry about your friend."

Those words felt like knives cutting into Aramis' heart, again bringing the actual loss of Athos to his awareness and he lowered his gaze.

"I'm sorry about your son."

Isko huffed a weak and ironic laugh, sounding so incredibly dry that it made Aramis cringe.

"You must think I am a bad person," the giant spoke and shifted uncomfortably, "that my morals can be so easily overturned by nothing but threats, and turn against my own people."

Aramis rested his hands on his knees, rustling on the chain in the movement, and inspected them absent-mindedly.

"He is your son," he replied simply.

"I don't expect you to understand," Isko continued, "you are a soldier in the King's service. You are used to follow orders, used to skip your own convictions in favour of the greater good, or the royal good."

Those words triggered an unknown anger in Aramis. Those words were partially true, but those were unproven generalizations, and made them feel as if he was nothing but a pawn on the chessboard.

"You don't know me," Aramis stated, not caring to turn around and actually look at the man he was speaking to.

Isko sighed.

"No, I don't. But I know that you musketeers claim to stand up for more than just the will of the King. You have values. Morality. Justice." He made a pause, carefully examining the words he was about to say. "I'm sorry you had to shed your values today. I had to as well. I had to fight my own brother on the battlefield. But I do that to save my son's life. Everyone would do that."

The last words had a begging tone in it, and Aramis couldn't help but actually feel sorry for Isko. He was as much a victim of this madman's revenge as he was.

"I don't judge you," Aramis replied snippily. He closed his eyes, resting his head backwards against the iron bars. "I would've done the same. But now, I don't know if this baron has anything to threaten me with. I don't know these people. What should I care?"

Aramis heard a loud rustling from a chain as Isko turned around in his cell, staring at the musketeer's back.

"You are not actually considering this, are you?" His voice was shaken with fear.

"Athos is dead," Aramis snapped, "All because he wanted to save these people. How am I, how are they supposed to make it out alive anyway?"

He knew he didn't meant what he said. It was the pure desperation, the exhaustion and the grief that were powering his temper, bringing forth a side of him he never showed. He always was polite, confident, and eager to take on the odds. He never slipped. But the last day was taking his toll.

"I thought you'd fight for justice, musketeer. I thought you'd bring down a madman when you see one. Don't you remember what you stand for?"

Isko was right. Why was he sitting around here, doing nothing, accepting all of this? He was better than that. Athos thought better of him. He had to prove it.

"I guess sometimes you forget," Isko spoke, nervously playing with the chain around his wrist, "What about your comrades? Athos said they'd come and look for you."

Aramis briefly closed his eye to prevent his emotions taking over as the name Athos brought back a sharp and painful memory.

"They will. But when they find out what happened to Athos, I don't know…" He choked off, quickly steering his gaze to the stone floor, very aware of the look Isko was probably giving him right now. "I don't know if they would still save me," he concluded, his shaky fingers stroking the rusty chain that tied him to the wall like a mangy dog.

He heard Isko moving uncomfortably behind him, and he heard his sigh before he answered.

"They'll know it wasn't your fault. I hope you know it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could've done."

"I…." But Aramis couldn't continue any further as the door was burst open and de Terré entered. Much to Aramis' surprise, he was alone, he had no guards with him. He didn't stop in front of both of their cells, but he came to a halt just in front of Aramis' cell, not paying attention to Isko in any way.

"Where is my son?" Isko asked, his hands jarring at the iron bars.

"He and the others are upstairs, in our tavern. He is alive, and doing surprisingly good so far. But I didn't come down here to talk about precious Reive."

"Then what do you want?" Aramis growled, his good eye locking on de Terré.

"I thought I'd express my deepest consolation about the fate of your comrade," de Terré purred and leaned against Aramis' cell.

"Why should I care about what you think?" Aramis retorted, silently preparing himself for a role, a version of himself he was acting, to test de Terré and to target his limits and resources.

De Terré arched up an eyebrow.

"You still don't understand the hierarchy here, do you?" the Baron snarled. "You do what I say and I let these people live. And you are a free man once my feud with de la Serre is settled."

"We both know that's not true. I'd have you arrested within a week, and you can't take that chance."

De Terré clenched his fist on his chest, right over his heart.

"Oh, Aramis. And I thought we both were men of honor."

"You are hurting, violating and captivating innocent people, good people, who never meant to do you any harm, because you and de la Serre think your issues can't be solved with a good old-fashioned duel!" Isko yelled and slammed his fist against the robust iron.

"I wasn't talking to you!" de Terré replied, his voice dangerously low and quiet. "I was talking to Aramis."

Aramis gripped the bars and started to lift himself up, so he could stand up to the Baron face to face, eye to eye.

_What do you stand for?_ Isko's words still echoed on in his head, and even though he had seen enough proof that this man in front of him was someone classified as evil, Aramis also knew it was never just black and white. He just needed to know.

"But what is it for?" he hissed.

"Come again?"

"I accept it," the musketeer explained and stood up as straight as he managed, "You have the superior cards. But I'd like to know why you can't settle this fight with de Terré without sacrificing a high number of innocent people."

"Because I am taking everything from him!" de Terré burst out, violently, but with a dangerous calmness in his voice. "He humiliated me. He down-graded me. I loved his daughter, and he denied her to me. Because I was not worthy. I gave her my heart, and he still insisted she would never marry me. I payed him such a high dowry for her, and he took it before he expelled me from his estate."

With each word, his voice started trembling more. De Terré seemed downright furious, his face red with anger, and that were the clues Aramis needed to indicate that the Baron was telling the truth.

"Love cannot be bought," he answered humorlessly and avoided the Baron's vicious stare. "So you declared war to him?"

De Terré came closer to the cell, and the only thing that separated the two men's faces were he thick iron bars of the prison.

"The day he started to hide her from me was the day I made him a promise. I would do everything for her. I would go through fire for her. Even if I have to burn down his lands first."

Aramis faked a sly grin.

"And you decided you would do that with captivating some innocent people, shooting innocent children. And you would kill them, I know that. I know the look on a man's face when he is telling the truth."

Now it was de Terré's turn to return the smile.

"I only care about her. I don't care what sacrifices it requires to have her at my side. And by the way, it does help me, doesn't it? You are fighting for me now. And you did great so far."

Aramis' eyes had a certain numbness in it, and that was the only thing not faked about everything he was about to say.

"My comrade paid a high price for that." God, his voice was too shaky. "What makes you think I am going to protect those people I don't even know? The only person in this prison that had a connection to me fell for your cause. You don't have leverage for me anymore."

De Terré's expression didn't falter at all. His mouth formed a crooked and disgusting smile, and Aramis once more couldn't wait for the opportunity to wipe it off his face.

"I understand," the Baron countered, "Athos was like your brother. The musketeer regiment is a family for you, I know." De Terré now leaned very closely, his head tilted a little bit so he could speak through the bars. "But I recall you have quite special connections to the highest seat of power in this country. Some might say, with adoration like a family."

Aramis froze, icy shock running through his veins. His faked but confident smile was wiped off his face with these words as he was processing the meaning of them. Another family but the musketeer regiment. There was no way de Terré could know about the Queen and the Dauphin. _No way_.

"I don't know what you are talking about," Aramis retorted wryly, his eyes avoiding the Baron's piercing glare. The Baron was laughing, very quietly, but he was laughing.

"God, I actually wasn't sure if this is true, but bloody hell." He clapped his hands in excitement while Aramis just stood there, frozen on the spot. De Terré lowered his voice again.

"Let's just say we both loved women we cannot have, right?"

Oh God, de Terré was actually talking about Anne. How on earth did he know?

"I do pro…," de Terré started but Aramis cut him off.

"What. Are. You. Talking. About.?" He repeated very slowly through clenched teeth, his voice nothing more but an intimidating growl.

"The cardinal knew all your secrets," de Terré said with a strange voice. "He will expose your sins from beyond the grave."

Aramis had heard those words before. The priest said them, the day he learned about Adele's fate. A shudder ran down his back. This couldn't be true, this couldn't be happening.

"I promise you to keep this little secret between us," de Terré said and backed off, sneaking backwards and towards the door, "as long as you do as I say. Now, Monsieur Aramis, that is my leverage."

And he closed the door behind him loudly, leaving Aramis shocked and uncontrolled concerning his feelings in the dark. He slipped. God, his expression had betrayed him. He never expected this. De Terré must've spoken to this priest of the cardinal. The man who only kept quiet because he was a man of god and still in service of the cardinal. Why would he tell him anything?

Aramis let out a frustrated scream and pulled so heavily on the chain that he lost his footing and collapsed to the floor with an agonized moan.

Images flooded his mind, images that triggered any kind of horrified feelings he had to offer. Queen Anne, walking up to the block, a headsman dresses in black awaiting her with a sharp and polished sword.

His son, cast away, living on the streets, far away from home, far away from any person he loved and was loved by.

And Athos, lying in the mud, impaled by the sword of a man who didn't know who he was battling.

He pictured Adele somewhere in the dark, on her knees, paying a heavy price because she made the mistake of loving him. He still saw her ghost sometimes when he closed his eyes. He had failed them all. He was responsible for every single one of these scenarios.

A hand reached through the iron bars and Aramis felt a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. His one eye wandered up to meet the gentle and heartbreakingly kind gaze of Isko.

_What do you stand for?_ The voices echoed in his head.

_Good lord, what do I stand for?_ He asked silently, and it was as if the warmth of the hand resting on his shoulder was the answer from above he needed to recollect his inner strength.

He may have failed Athos, but he wouldn't disappoint him. He would figure out a way to get everyone out of here. He wouldn't be enslaved for a violent cause, nobody had the right to do that to him.

_Nobody shall ever dare to put chains on me again_, he heard Porthos' voice somewhere in his mind. He didn't remember when Porthos said that, but he knew that if his friend was by his side in this moment, those would be his words. Not to offer comfort, but to regain the focus. Porthos would never just surrender.

If de Terré thought the cardinal's secrets and the words that haunted Aramis in his nightmares would achieve his tamed obedience, he was terribly mistaken. Aramis would do everything within his power to protect his brothers, and to protect the Queen and his son. He made a vow for that. He would never break it.

De Terré was driven by anger, by rejection, and by untamed love for a woman out of his reach. Aramis would show him what happened when someone tried to play with the lives of his loved ones. When he could not save Athos, he could save France's future and keep the secrets Athos was burdened to share with him.

De Terré wouldn't succeed. Aramis was determined to make sure of that.

**-MMMM-**

Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos had checked every body of the masked men but thankfully, they hadn't found Aramis. D'Artagnan watched Porthos hectically double-checking everyone and also scouting the area in the forest, just to make sure.

Athos was swaying like a drunkard, stumbling from one body to another. The hit that had rendered him unconscious must've been hard. The swordsman now carefully and slowly made his way to d'Artagnan who leaned against the side of a cart. Athos came to a stop and managed to grip the edge of the cart last second, otherwise, his knees wouldn't have hold his weight.

"That head wound might need stitching, Athos," d'Artagnan stated dryly and needlessly pointed at the small trace of blood that still coated the left side of the musketeer's face.

"Aramis is not here," Athos murmured, completely ignoring d'Artagnan's request, "We need to plan our next step."

He let go of the cart and nearly fell over as he lost his balance. D'Artagnan grasped him at one shoulder to prevent his descent to the ground.

"Yes, as soon as we get you stitched up" he replied.

"We don't have time for…," Athos started his rambling but Porthos rejoined them and interrupted him.

"You are no help like this Athos. Let's get you inside, check your head, and then we make plans." D'Artagnan was unable to read Porthos' mind, which was unusual, because the older musketeer usually was the one for wearing his heart on the sleeve. His voice had a strange tone in it. Impatience and calmness at the same time. Controlling his temper and focusing on the most important things at a time.

Athos mumbled something incomprehensible, but then he let d'Artagnan and Porthos guide him towards the tavern. Once they had Athos draped on a chair, d'Artagnan wandered over to Madame de la Serre, who was involved in a deep conversation with her husband.

"Do you have someone who…" He cleared his throat, nervously glancing from Monsieur to Madame de la Serre, "Well, someone who is a little bit more experienced in the medical field than I am?"

Madame de la Serre looked confused.

"But you did stitch up Jorac just fine! Why don't you offer this skill to your friend?"

D'Artagnan was about to come up with a good explanation but before he could say anything, Porthos intervened from behind.

"It was a long procedure with Jorac. My friend here is exhausted. If you have someone with some skill to treat a head-wound, please send them here." The older musketeer's words didn't tolerate any protest, so Madame de la Serre nodded and turned around.

"Marie! You are needed here!"

An older woman, probably in her sixties, shuffled up the stairs, her brown-grey hair bound to a ponytail in her neck, a kind smile on her face.

"What is it?"

D'Artagnan pointed at Athos, who still looked very groggy and unstable in his seat. She nodded and hurried over to the musketeer, gently taking his head into her hands and inspecting the wound.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan and Porthos assembled around Athos.

"So, anyone has an idea? What to do next?" d'Artagnan asked and his eyes wandered between his two comrades.

"We need to secure the village again, be prepared for when de Terré attacks again!" Dorian de la Serre answered. D'Artagnan shot him an ironic look, since the Gascon had addressed his comrades, not the nobleman.

"With all my respect, Monsieur…" Porthos started and turned towards the man, "but do you want to fight in defense for the rest of your life? Because that tactic will serve to that."

De la Serre huffed out an angry laughter.

"What else am I supposed to do? He has the advantage. And enough trained men. All I have are farmers who were taught how to swing a sword six hours before."

"The only advantage de Terré has," Athos commented and hissed as Marie poured an unknown liquid over his head wound, "is that he has your people in his prison. When they are free, you can attack him without worries."

"With whose people?" de la Serre countered and stared at the musketeer disbelievingly, "you cannot ask your captain for reinforcements. The King would never allow it."

Athos groaned and shifted in his seat, much to Marie's discontent as she weakly slapped his shoulder so he would keep still.

"The only target you need to have is de Terré. Not his people, not his soldiers. When this baron is out of action, his sheep will run away in every direction," their leader spoke tiredly.

"Only a musketeer could say something like this. What do you know about how things work out here? About how the aristocracy and their people think?" de la Serre shouted, desperation evident in his voice.

Athos raised an eyebrow, his eyes cold like stone.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

D'Artagnan felt a shudder running down his back. If one of them knew how the things worked in aristocracy, it was Athos. But what did de la Serre knew anyway. All he distributed until now where doubtful comments and unthankful gestures.

D'Artagnan turned back to Athos and Porthos, completely leaving de la Serre out of this.

"So, we need to free the prisoners?"

Athos nodded.

"They are the only thing he can hold against Isko and Aramis."

"And when we are able to rout de Terré?" Porthos chipped in.

"His soldiers won't fight for him. No de Terré means no money."

Porthos nodded slowly, thinking intensely.

"Then we need to combine both. Somehow."

D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He had an idea, but he knew nobody was going to like it.

"Come on, spit it out whelp," Porthos commanded with an amused half-smile on his face, "I can almost hear the wheels turning in your head."

D'Artagnan looked over to Athos, unsure if he should really say this, even though he knew the other must've had the same idea as well.

Athos widened his eyes and gestured him to speak freely.

"Well, one of us could sneak in there, maybe pretend he switched sides. We could work out a plan on how to free the prisoners, and the remaining men here arrange a distraction."

Porthos snorted and rocked his body back and forth.

"And I guess you are the musketeer that should go there, right?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well, to be fair, when Aramis is not here, I, for sure, am the best actor out of the three of us. You know, if I run into other people by accident there!" d'Artagnan shot back, and he received nothing but stares from Athos and Porthos. They knew he was right.

"We need to act, now!" d'Artagnan continued explanations when nobody offered an answer to him, "what is the worst that could happen?"

Athos grinned darkly.

"Oh, nothing. They could just throw you into their prison as well."

"At least I'd have a nice chat with Aramis."

Porthos laughed weakly.

"Yeah, or they could chop your head of the second they discover your intentions."

"Well, but I could say I've tried."

"Not like your headless body would care," Athos commented dryly.

Porthos folded his arms, exchanging a meaningful look with Athos, who just shrugged his shoulders in defeat. Then they both looked at the Gascon, mischief glistering in both of their eyes as they nodded.

"We're settled then?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes. When would you need the distraction?" Athos asked, returning to his usual indifferent tone in his voice, his strategic nature shining through.

"Let's say midnight," d'Artagnan suggested, "Hopefully, this adventure…"

"Nightmare," Porthos corrected grimly.

"…is over when the sun rises again."


	10. The Rescue

**Chapter 10: The Rescue**

It was late afternoon when d'Artagnan, having changed his clothing and armor he took from one of the attackers earlier, made his way up the slope. The mansion of de Terré came into his sight, an impressive building, even for a man of his class. There weren't many people in the streets of the few houses that were built there, just a few guards chatting and laughing, others who happened to be wounded in the battle earlier were dragged to a tavern by their comrades.

That's also were most of the people seemed to reside at the moment, judging by the amount of laughter, cheering but also screaming that echoed from there. God, these people really seemed to be insane.

But d'Artagnan also spotted two or three guards in front of the main entrance of the mansion. Maybe de Terré was there. It could be an opportunity. But there was no way d'Artagnan would be able to sneak his way through this. He had the armor they all wore, so he could hope they wouldn't suspect anything. Or that there wasn't a red guard that could identify him.

His gaze shifted to the tavern again. Maybe the best way to stay covered was to walk right into the crowd. He just needed to make sure nobody spotted him sneaking around before he entered the tavern.

With a quick side-glance he made sure the guards in front of the mansion didn't look his way, then he quickly ran over and hid behind a stone well placed at the side of the road. He could see a back door to the tavern from here. He just had to go unnoticed.

"This might be not have been our smartest plan," the Gascon muttered and looked around, only to remember there was no one else there.

_Oh right._ They relied on him. He needed to focus. Find out where the prisoners are, free them and get back to de la Serre's.

He drew in a deep breath to prepare himself. The backdoor was just twenty feet away. He needed to get there undiscovered. With a few swift movements of light footing, he flew over the sticky ground and managed to get to the back door without any persons shouting at him to stop. The noise coming out of the tavern was enormous, and d'Artagnan shook his head. So much for an estate that couldn't be infiltrated and guards that are on high alert.

He carefully opened the door and slipped inside. He was greeted with the striking scent of tobacco and wine, combined with a strange trace of sweat and blood. D'Artagnan gulped as he took notice of the interior of the building.

Dispersed around the room, on multiple chairs, were the wounded henchmen of de Terré, being treated by the women of the village, who looked so scared it was a miracle they weren't shaking while treating the men's wounds with very poor medical tools. And hygiene also didn't seem to have made it on their priority list.

D'Artagnan quickly controlled his facial features again and tried to put on a more indifferent mask while shoving his way through the crowd. Drunk and fighting men filled in the very rest of the tavern, not leaving much breathing space or any space at all. Their brawling and drunk dancing also made it very difficult for the women to treat the wounded men properly, but they were filled up with enough alcohol to not care.

D'Artagnan snorted. If de la Serre attacked now, the only men he could fight were drunkards. Not quite a challenge, especially not when he had two musketeers fighting for him. But d'Artagnan wasn't here to make plans, he was here to free the prisoners. However that should be.

"The boy isn't even fun. Didn't tell us a single story about his father's origin!" one of the man roared very near to d'Artagnan's ears, and he turned around to see two men standing closely together, trying to have a conversation over the roaring noise in the establishment.

"The old man is getting on my nerves with his disrespectful insults!" the other one countered, his words slurred and he shortly fought to keep his balance, "but the girl. Oh, the precious girl."

His drinking comrade slapped him against the cheek.

"You know what de Terré said. Nobody touches them."

"Well, then he shouldn't have brought them here!" The man seemed really upset and started grinning mischievously. The other one didn't seem so amused.

"If I have to choose between beating the crap out of you and not listening to the landlord, I'd prefer punching you."

D'Artagnan quickly ducked as a fist came swinging and the two men were involved in a brawling shortly after. The Gascon meandered his way over to the corner so he could have the opportunity to catch his breath and get a view.

Apparently, some of the prisoners were brought here. He just had to figure out where.

"Hey, you there!" a voice called and d'Artagnan flinched as he realized that the barkeeper was talking to him. He waved at him and signaled to come over.

D'Artagnan gulped and put on the most innocent face he could muster before walking up to the bar.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice empty of any emotion.

"I need a favor, boy," the old man said and handed him three bottles of water. "Bring that upstairs to the prisoners. After they had to endure these marauding idiots, I'm sure they'll appreciate an act of kindness."

"An act of kindness?" d'Artagnan echoed, not quite sure what he was supposed to do now.

The barkeeper raised an eyebrow.

"You look like a nice lad. Not one of these disrespectful brutes. Go, bring that to the prisoners!" His tone didn't tolerate any other input.

D'Artagnan took the bottles of water before searching the room for the stairs. Luckily, he didn't have to make his way through the crowd again, he could easily go alongside the wall and reached the stairs without being involved in any kind of conflict or violent incident.

After taking a reassuring look around, he hurried up the stairs, evading being tackled by a drunk old man and nearly running into one of the women with the medical equipment. On the second floor, he was met with a group of men jeering and yelling at two heavily armed guards, standing in front of a door with arms crossed above their chests.

D'Artagnan pushed some of the men aside, always careful that he wouldn't drop one of the bottles. He came to a halt in front of the guards.

"What do you want?" one of them asked and arched up an eyebrow.

D'Artagnan forced his muscles to relax and met the piercing glare of the guard with a cold and fretful gaze, before he lifted up the three bottles he carried in his arms.

"Toquet sends you?"

D'Artagnan nodded, assuming it was the innkeeper's name. The guards exchanged a quick look before they nodded and opened the door for him just enough so he could slip through, before they shut it closed again so the mob couldn't enter.

So. It has been a lot easier than he thought. But he didn't take the time to celebrate this moment as his eyes fell on the three people sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. They were actually chained. They had a metallic cuff around their wrist and it was all attached to a iron ring hanging from the opposite wall.

The woman was hovering over a young boy, who looked very pale and all in all unwell. D'Artagnan noticed a blood-soaked bandage around his upper arm, and the poor boy was shivering. They probably didn't have very much to treat the arm properly. The old man on the other hand sat in the other corner, not even looking up when d'Artagnan entered. He just kept muttering insults, quietly, but d'Artagnan could make them out very clearly.

He handed each of them a bottle. The old man snatched it out of his hands with a murdering glare, and the woman nodded thankfully before she turned to the boy again. They obviously expected him to leave, but the Gascon made no efforts to do so. He fell on his knees next to the boy and reached for the damaged arm.

The boy shrank back, his eyes wide with pain and fear. The woman hissed as she slapped d'Artagnan's hand away.

"You people did enough already!" the old man scoffed from behind, "Just leave us alone!"

D'Artagnan put a finger on his lips to shush them.

"Please," he said with a low voice, throwing a worried look towards the door multiple times, "my name is d'Artagnan of the King's musketeers. I'm here to help you."

The woman gaped at him, as if she didn't believe her eyes.

"Did de la Serre send you?"

D'Artagnan frowned.

"Well, yeah…kind of…," he stuttered and noticed the old man joining them as well, dragging his chain behind him.

"Listen, I need to know where the key for these locks is…," d'Artagnan said and motioned to the handcuffs around their wrists.

The old man raised an eyebrow.

"I think those are universal locks. The guards have a key, de Terré has one as well."

"The guards…," d'Artagnan murmured and his gaze wandered to the door again.

"Yeah, the ones that aren't drunk. Those who are doing their duty," the man added with a skeptical tone.

"Alright…," d'Artagnan said and hectically searched his mind for a good idea, "I'm gonna get one of those keys and I'm going to get you out of here."

He stood up and walked over to the window, casting a look down. It wasn't too high, and the grass grew very tall.

"Maybe if we bind those chains together, we can escape through the window. Nobody will notice you aren't here anymore."

The old man snorted.

"Yeah, so we are supposed to escape in daylight? The other guards outside will see us!"

D'Artagnan grabbed the man by the arm firmly.

"My comrades organized a distraction at midnight. You'll recognize it. The guards will be too busy to notice you escaping into the forest. De la Serre's men will get you there."

The boy grabbed the woman's sleeve, an expression of fear and confusion written over his face.

"What about my father and the musketeer?"

D'Artagnan blinked and got on his knees in front of the boy again.

"Yes, where are they? I need to get them out as well."

"De Terré keeps them in his basement of the mansion. You'll need another key for the cells first. The prison's guards will have one."

D'Artagnan nodded.

"So, this might not be our smartest plan ever, but it is our only chance. You," he said, pointing at the old man, "what is your name?"

"Hugo," the man growled.

"Hugo, can you lead them out of here? I'll get the key to unlock these chains but can you help them escape through the window when the distraction takes place?"

The old man hesitated for a second, but he nodded.

"Yes, I will. No worries, musketeer."

D'Artagnan's shoulder sacked in relief.

"Are you going to get Father out?" the boy asked between clenched teeth and stared at him through hooded eyes.

D'Artagnan granted him a reassuring smile.

"Yes, don't worry. I'll get them out of there. I'll be back within an hour with the key. If you need help, I'll give it to you. If you can do that on your own this evening, I'll rescue Isko and Aramis."

Hugo put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll take care of these two, lad. Thank you."

D'Artagnan managed a brief nod before he turned on the heel and stormed out the door into the arms of the crowd again.

**-MMMM-**

It was late afternoon when Tréville rode back through the Garrison's gates. His visit at this Jacques Millier's house didn't help him as much as he hoped. The description of the musketeer that visited him fitted d'Artagnan, and the abduction in front of the church seemed to be connected to Aramis as far as Tréville understood it. But nobody was able to tell him where d'Artagnan had meant to go or where those masked men had dragged Aramis. And an explanation for Athos' and Porthos' disappearance still missed.

He jumped off his horse and thrust the reins into the capable hands of Clément, before he hurried up the stairs, taking two steps at once. Without further announcement, he busted the door to his office open.

Guillaume was standing at his desk, the letters all folded out in front of him, covering the table and the chairs, as well as some of the floor.

His musketeer looked up when he heard the captain enter and tilted his head as a greeting. Tréville was too stressed to return the gesture.

"Please tell me you found something," he said tiredly and strode over to join Guillaume at the table.

Guillaume eyed his captain worriedly, but he quickly focused back on his task.

"At first those seemed like usual requests to the King, about providing a loan or asking to take the law to his hands."

Tréville raised an eyebrow. The silent 'but' hung in the air between them.

"But," Guillaume finally continued, "I found something that made me suspicious. You remember, Captain, that I spent a lot of my youth at an abbey, right? I studied hand-written texts and helped reproduce them to…you know…keep them unique. Anyway, these letters…," and he held up three of them at once, not choosing one in particular, "they are the same."

Tréville frowned.

"What do you mean they are the same?"

Guillaume picked up another pack of letters and shoved them into the captain's hands.

"Whoever did this, he is really good. A falsifier. As much as these handwritings seem to differ, the ink that was used is the same."

Tréville now took a closer look at the letters. They were all addressed at Rochefort or the King himself. The parchment also had astonishing similarities.

"You think those are faked?" the Captain asked unnecessarily.

"Textually, they all say something different, complaining about different matters. But one of them for example treats the robbery of a jewellery salesman here in Paris. I checked this, Sir. The man doesn't recall writing a letter to the First Minister or the King."

Realization slowly but surely sunk into Captain Tréville's awareness. He raised a hand with the letters and met Guillaume's piercing glare.

"So, these letters only serve one purpose…" Guillaume declared, waiting for the Captain to finally get it, but Tréville already turned on the heel and made his way to the door.

"To keep them busy. To distract the Comte and the King from something else."

He was already on the bottom of the stairs when he heard Guillaume finally follow him outside.

"Where are you going?" he asked and watched as the captain mounted one of the horses, again.

"I have some things to discuss with Rochefort!" Tréville shot back and dug his heels inside his horses flanks.

**-MMMM-**

A short while later, he found himself facing the guards that stood vigil over Rocheforts office.

"For the last time, let me through!" Tréville growled, his eyes narrowed with anger.

"He is not here, captain! Feel free to leave any note you like."

"Where is he?" Tréville growled and stared the men down with all the authority he could muster.

"Captain, he is not available right now. I'm asking you to leave now."

Tréville bristled with anger and approached one of the guards until he stood only inches away from him.

"You better tell me where the Comte de Rochefort is right now or I'll have you arrested on behalf of disobedience against a high rank member of the court!" he yelled.

The man gulped.

"He is in a meeting with the King and the Queen."

Tréville lightly smacked the guard's armor.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

The only thing he received as an answer was a confused stare of the man so he turned his back on them and walked back over the corridor, where he nearly collided with a young red guard.

"My apologies, Captain," the guard said and tilted his head respectfully. He already wanted to continue his way, but Tréville held him back by the shoulder once he spotted the letter inside the man's palm.

"Are those letters for Rochefort?" he asked sharply.

The guard nodded.

"Give it to me."

The guard looked skeptical and scared at the same time, nervously shifting from one foot to another.

"It's okay," Tréville added with a more soothing voice and even offered one of his rare smiles to the insecure guard, "I will give it to Rochefort. I am on my way to him right now."

The guard hesitated for another moment, but then he held out a trembling hand and handed the captain the letter.

Tréville thanked him with a quick nod before he took off towards the exit, breaking the sigil in the meantime and unfolding the letter.

He came to a stop outside, when the daylight spent enough light so he could read the note.

_To the Comte de Rochefort,_

_I apologize, but the matter is urgent. This morning, a group of children accompanied by two men who were not even capable with a sword arrived at my property, begging for shelter. They were refugees, coming from the estate of the Baron de la Serre, about an hour's ride from here, so maybe half a day's ride from Paris.  
They told me about a war that was going on at the lands of de la Serre, where a lot of blood has already been shed. I thought the crown should know about this quarrel, since there was no sign of any royal intervention. They set off a war right in front of your door! Even though two children reported the sighting of musketeers with the Baron de la Serre, it seems as if the crown is not aware of the multiple crimes committed not far away from here.  
I'm asking you to take the matters into your hands, before this ends in a disaster._

_Respectfully,_

_Jean Duvont, Baron de la Luire_

Tréville stared at the piece of paper for a few more seconds, comprehending what he just found out. Musketeer sighting at de la Serre's, and he, the Captain, was not aware of any men of the regiment being sent there.

He quickly found his horse and mounted it. He was going to gather some musketeers, and then he was going to retrieve his lost ones. He finally knew where to look for them.

**-MMMM-**

It shouldn't have been so easy. Either they've been overestimating their enemies or d'Artagnan was just lucky, but he had been able to steal the guard's key very easily, using an old pickpocket trick a drunken Porthos had taught him a few months ago.

Now he was in possession of a key, and he just hoped that all went well, and de Terré didn't want to visit the prisoners whom he was going to bring the key soon, and the guard won't notice their absence.

He just needed to find a good reason why he should enter the room again, and the opportunity was handed to him on a silver platter, both in a figurative and a literal sense, as the barkeeper, Toquet was his name, signaled him to come over and pointed at a silver tablet with some bread and cheese.

D'Artagnan again shoved his way through the crowd and leaned over the counter towards Toquet.

"Shall I bring that upstairs again?"

Toquet nodded and a grim look passed over his face.

"The baron told me not to give them the good cheese, but you know what, boy? I don't care. He is not here to forbid it anyway."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow as he laid hands on the tablet.

"Where is he by the way?"

Toquet shot him a bemused look and filled up a mug of wine before he answered.

"At the mansion, I guess. His uncle arrived this morning from Paris. A spiritual man, a priest, but I've got to admit, he actually creeps the hell out of me."

D'Artagnan faked a weak chuckle as he lifted the tablet.

"And I thought a man of faith is supposed to be a comforting presence."

"Just as I thought, pal. Now go, bring the food to the prisoners, before they think we're letting them starve."

D'Artagnan nodded and balanced the tablet up the stairs, which proved to be not as easy as he thought with all the drunk men around. He finally made it to the door with the two guards again, and he was met with their questioning stares.

"'r you Toquet's errand boy now?" the man who he'd stolen the key from asked.

D'Artagnan faked a resigned sigh.

"I'm just doing what I was asked. May I enter now, please?" he said with as much respect as he could do.

The other guard inspected the tablet.

"That's some good cheese you got there. Why would anyone waste it on the prisoners?" he interjected.

D'Artagnan stared him down with annoyance.

"I don't know," he confessed and put on a cocky smile, "Why don't you ask de Terré?"

It wiped off the arrogant expression from the guard's face and the man nervously bit his lip.

"Go on!" he finally growled and opened the door, so d'Artagnan could enter.

Once the creaky door was shut closed behind him, a confident grin spread over his face as he looked into the faces of the three prisoners.

"You got it?" Hugo hissed quietly.

D'Artagnan pulled out the key from his pocket and waved with it, before he hurried over and undid the locks around the chains, putting the chains on the floor as quietly as he could.

"Thank you, Monsieur!" the woman said reverently and looked up to him with wide eyes.

D'Artagnan didn't waste any more time and turned to Hugo.

"Use the locks to bind the chains together so you'll be able to escape through the window. Go as soon as midnight comes near and run into the forest. De la Serre's men will wait for you there."

Hugo nodded and took over the chains d'Artagnan now handed him.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"My friends are organizing a distraction around midnight. I'm going to use the chaos and try to infiltrate the basement once I got the key and get Aramis and your father out!" He winked at the boy.

Hugo nodded.

"I'll do my best. What if the guards come to see us and notice that we are unlocked?"

D'Artagnan cleared his throat.

"Then, I fear, you have no choice but to run for your lives." His gaze wandered to the open window nearby. "They keep the hay for the animals right outside this window, so if you fall, you're probably going to be lucky."

Hugo grabbed him by the arm and patted it lightly.

"We'll do our best. Now go!"

And d'Artagnan turned on the heel without further hesitation and entered the full and crowded tavern again. He needed to get outside, to get one of those keys to the cellar.

Once he was downstairs he waited for a good opportunity and slipped out the backdoor again, hoping it would go unnoticed.

**-MMMM-**

It was already dark outside, d'Artagnan didn't know exactly how late it was, but he guessed he may have about two hours left to come up with a good plan on how to infiltrate the mansion without being caught.

He spent the next hour with scouting the area and searching for other entrances to the mansion except for the main one, but he didn't find one. He was also able to memorize the ways some of the guards took around the huge house.

Basically, he didn't have a choice. He needed to get through the front door, but he needed a key to the cellars before even attempting to rescue Isko and Aramis. Maybe he was able to walk right through the front door, under the cover of an urgent request to de Terré. Maybe they would let him through. He was dressed like them after all. It's not like these henchmen had proven certain intelligence until now, so he might as well try.

He gathered all his courage and swallowed down the lump in his throat, before he drew a deep breath and walked up to the two guards in front of the main entrance of the mansion.

Both got startled once they spotted him, but relaxed visibly once they recognized his clothing and looked at him with arrogant expressions in their eyes.

"What do you want?"

D'Artagnan did his best to meet their gazes with the same arrogance and annoyance.

"I was told to assist in guarding de Terré here."

One of them raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Really? Who told you that?"

"Vonbéan!" d'Artagnan replied, faking a totally convinced tone in his voice.

Vonbéan was the name of the guard he took the key from, the one guarding the prisoners at the tavern. D'Artagnan figured that out and hoped that the name had enough importance to grant him a way in.

To his relish, the guards seemed to pale at the name and quickly moved out of the way.

"Tell Vonbéan once you get back that next time he shall announce it before he sends men over here."

D'Artagnan tilted his head in agreement and hastened to slip through the giant door.

Once he was inside, he quickly closed it behind him and leaned against it, shakingly releasing his breath. He took a quick look around and put on the straight face immediately. He heard voices of guards in another room, and their steps on the thick wooden floor.

"Okay, focus…," he muttered to himself quietly. "Basement. Need to find the keys…"

He turned to the left and started walking with as much of a madman's guard's authority as he could muster. He kept his chin up high and didn't turn his head once, but his eyes rolled in its sockets, soaking in every detail of the architecture of this place.

He needed to find the basement. The question was just how he was supposed to look for it without being discovered. It's not like he could just go and ask someone.

At least he thought so. Lost in thought, he turned right behind a doorframe and nearly bumped into two of de Terré's henchmen, that were sharing a piece of bread and having a silent and gruff conversation.

"Jesus, boy, look out!" one of them exclaimed after d'Artagnan recovered the bread that had landed on the floor.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized quickly, and froze as one of them grabbed him by the arm very tightly.

"Who are you?" the guard asked grumpily and got so near to d'Artagnan's face that he could taste the foul breath coming from his mouth. He tried hard not to gag.

"I'm Marveaux!" he lied and cursed that he didn't come up with a better name. He just hoped these guards didn't know everyone by name.

The man in front of him distorted his mouth into a crooked smile.

"And what do you want, Marveaux?" he asked, putting so much scorn into the name it made d'Artagnan cringe.

"I was…" He cleared his throat as he realized that his voice was way too shaky. "I was sent here for change of guard. Anyone here who likes to put his feet up and enjoy a goblet of wine?" He fortified his statement with a wide grin.

The guard responded with a weak chuckle.

"Very well. Go search Livert, he almost took a nap twice already."

D'Artagnan bit his lip before asking the question.

"What's his position?"

The guard furrowed his brow, but sighed before he answered.

"He's guarding the prisoners. You'll find him in front of the basement."

D'Artagnan barely managed to hide his grin.

_What a coincidence._

They really made it way too easy for him. The two guards already turned their backs on him so he slipped through the next door and continued his search for the basement. The house was huge. The family must be wealthy as hell. The costs for the staff alone must be enormous.

He wandered around the house, always trying to act as if he belonged here. As he passed another guard, standing in front of the stairs that led upstairs, he stopped and turned towards the young man, definitely at least five years younger than d'Artagnan.

"Have you seen Livert?" he asked in the most casual voice he managed.

The boy nodded and pointed to the right.

"Back there."

D'Artagnan tilted his head and took off into the direction he was told. It wasn't long now until Porthos and Athos launched their distraction. He needed to act soon.

And finally.

There it was.

A thick, wooden door, with some iron reinforcements. A middle-aged man sitting on a chair in front of it, his chin sunken to his chest tiredly. His head snapped up once he heard d'Artagnan enter the room, and he put his hand on the hilt of his sword. D'Artagnan noticed a blood-soaked bandage around his arm.

He quickly raised his hands in a mollifying gesture.

"Livert, right? I'm your replacement. You can go and enjoy the evening with the others at the tavern," d'Artagnan babbled and made another step forward.

Livert rose from his seat, not loosening his grip on the sword.

"About time," he murmured and fumbled on his jacket. D'Artagnan heard the clinging of keys and tried to play off his nervousness, as he was also expecting the distraction from Porthos and Athos any second.

Livert finally found the keys and signaled him to come closer. D'Artagnan followed and Livert got uncomfortably close.

"The only persons allowed down there are de Terré or Vonbéan, understood?"

D'Artagnan swallowed hard, but he nodded. He already reached for the keys in Livert's hands as the man snatched them back.

"Wait a second…," he said in a suspicious voice and eyed d'Artagnan intensely, "I know you."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth.

"I'm new."

But the Gascon knew he was screwed the second Livert's eyes widened and recognition was written all over his face.

"I fought you this morning. That was you on the battlefield, you who did this to my arm. You are a spy."

D'Artagnan shook his head, even though he knew Livert was already convinced. Well, he was right, so d'Artagnan really couldn't hold that against him.

The second Livert opened his mouth to call for reinforcements, a loud bang sounded through the night outside.

The distraction.

D'Artagnan didn't waste any more time. The call for help from Livert was downed by the noisy blast outside, so the musketeer used the moment of surprise and knocked him out with a hit against the head, before ripping the keys from the limp hands and kicking the door open.

Without bothering to throw a look over his shoulder, he hurried down the narrow staircase and entered a room plunged in darkness.

He was greeted with a loud yell.

"What's going on?" The voice belonged to a tall man, with broad shoulders and long, blonde hair. Recalling the image of Gustav into his mind, there was no doubt this was his brother.

Still, it was the other voice sounding through the basement that brought unimaginable warmth to his heart.

"D'Artagnan?"

For a moment, d'Artagnan was frozen on the spot. There were two cells in front of him, and the only source of light was a nearly slaked torch in the corner of the room. The two figures were chained to the stone wall like dogs. It was a truly horrific sight.

Isko, the warrior, stood in front of the bars, staring into d'Artagnan's eyes with so much fierceness it sent a shudder down the musketeer's back. Next to him, dragging himself in a standing position, was Aramis, looking at d'Artagnan with so much disbelief in his eyes that the Gascon wasn't so sure anymore Aramis had expected him. He must've known someone would come for him, right?

The marksman looked awful, d'Artagnan asserted. The right side of the face was a mess, and even in the poor light he was given here, d'Artagnan was able to see the large bruises, purple and blue painting a grotesque picture over his friend's face, the eye swollen shut and some split skin here and there contributing some small traces of blood.

D'Artagnan whistled as he hurried to Isko's cell and fumbled with the keys.

"You look awful," he commented into Aramis' direction.

He heard a weak laugh as an answer.

"What's going on?" Aramis asked this time, watching how d'Artagnan turned the key so the cell would open.

"I'm getting you out of here, that's what's going on."

The cell opened with an awful creak, and he was grabbed immediately by Isko.

"What about my son?"

"Yes, they have prisoners. Up in the tavern I think!" Aramis added nervously.

D'Artagnan wiped Isko's hand off his shoulder and started to free the man of his handcuff.

"I took care of it. You all are going to be free today."

To his shock, Aramis didn't respond with a witty comment as he would usually do. D'Artagnan looked up and saw the marksman breathing rapidly, his lips trembling as if he was weighing his options. D'Artagnan didn't see any options.

The cuff around Isko's wrist finally snapped open and d'Artagnan hurried to get to Aramis' cell, while Isko started to gather his weapons.

"No, d'Artagnan, you don't understand. I can't."

D'Artagnan ignored Aramis' comment and impatiently tried to turn the key in the lock.

"Come with us, musketeer!" Isko stated and bent down to collect a musketeer pauldron from the ground, in which d'Artagnan recognized Athos'. Isko held it up and looked at Aramis. "He told you they would come."

Aramis stared at the ground.

"Yes, doesn't help him anyway."

D'Artagnan shrugged.

"Yeah, well, Athos is going to kick my ass if I leave here without you, so no argument about this, Aramis."

An uncomfortable silence settled over them.

D'Artagnan, still fighting his own fight with the door that was stuck, let his gaze wander over Isko and Aramis. He noticed Aramis' eyes, hooded by a crushing sadness and bitterness. And slowly but surely, he understood. Aramis didn't know about Athos' fate. For all he knew, the swordsman could've been dead.

"Athos is alive, Aramis," d'Artagnan said delighted right before cursing about the damn door that just wouldn't open.

Aramis' eyes went wide and he gaped at his friend unbelievingly.

"You're joking, right?" His voice dripped with relief.

D'Artagnan grinned.

"Took a good hit, but he is alive. Damn it!" he cursed as the key slipped out of the keyhole again. D'Artagnan's trembling hands didn't contribute to help with this.

Voices came from upstairs. The guards probably noticed the unconscious form of Livert by now.

"Come on, open, damn it!" d'Artagnan cursed frustrated as the cell didn't want to open, and he started kicking against it as if that would help.

Aramis put a hand in between the bars and grabbed d'Artagnan's wrist.

The Gascon looked up into his friend's eyes.

"You need to go!" Aramis said insistently. His eyes wandered to the staircase. "They are coming! You end up in these chains too if you don't go now!"

D'Artagnan, still coming up with all kinds of insults for the door that still wouldn't open, looked up.

"I'm not leaving you here."

Aramis strengthened his grip on d'Artagnan's hand.

"Please, d'Artagnan, I'm begging you. Tell Athos to lead an attack. As soon as the prisoners are free, de Terré lost all of his advantage. Go, now!" He almost yelled the last words.

D'Artagnan's jaw tensed.

"You have no right to ask that from me," he replied, his voice cold as ice.

Aramis shot him a weak, but compassionate smile.

"I fear I alone have it." He turned to look at Isko. "Give me the necklace."

Isko furrowed his brow.

"What?"

"My necklace. Back there, with all my other belongings. Give it to me."

Isko did as he was asked and Aramis firmly closed his fist around his beloved pendant.

"Look after the prisoners!" They heard the shouting from above.

D'Artagnan felt Aramis' intense stare on him as he still refused to let go of the lock.

"Do you trust me, d'Artagnan?" the marksman asked.

"Yes." The reply came without any hesitation.

"Then go. Lead an attack. Don't worry about me, I'll find a way out."

They heard loud steps on the staircase.

"Now, go!"

D'Artagnan let out a frustrated scream and turned his back on his friend to run up the stairs behind Isko. They ran into two men who wanted to check on them, but Isko knocked them out with his bare hands.

Throwing a last glance back, d'Artagnan fled from the mansion and through the chaos into the safety of the woods, leaving Aramis behind in the darkness and in the captivity of a madman.


	11. Salvation from Paris

**Chapter 11: Salvation from Paris**

D'Artagnan stormed out of the front door and avoided getting beheaded by a sword being flung at him by ducking his head the very last second. Isko took care of the attacker, and judging by the noises, it seemed as if he tore him apart with his bare hands.

D'Artagnan gestured him to follow him and he headed for the woods, knowing that Porthos and Athos would wait there for him. He turned his head again one last time. The smoke of the distraction was still waving over the field, about two-hundred feet away from them. His eyes settled on the mansion one last time, his heart aching as he once again realized he left his friend there to his fate.

But he had no time to think. He needed to make sure the prisoners were safe. So he ran into the forest, hearing Isko following closely behind him. They made their way through bushes and above mud, and d'Artagnan didn't fail to admire that Isko blindly put his trust into the young musketeer. He counted on him to save the life of his son after all.

It didn't take too long and the two of them came to a stop as soon as they heard voices and d'Artagnan signaled Isko to stop. The giant stopped, his breath puffing small clouds into the cold night, then he turned his head to look for the source of the voices.

D'Artagnan slapped some of the thick branches away and was met with a fist in the face and he stumbled backwards again against Isko.

He was already prepared to fight back when he heard the voice.

"I'm so sorry. I thought you were one of them." That was Hugo.

D'Artagnan rubbed his hand against his jaw.

"Yes, no, I mean…I'm not," he stuttered and seconds later he was shoved aside by Isko once the man spotted his son, being supported by Ria. The tall man pulled his son in a firm, but careful hug and Reive buried his face in his father's shoulder.

Hugo gave him an acknowledging nod.

"I see you made it." His eyes searched the area behind d'Artagnan.

"Where is the musketeer?"

D'Artagnan ground his teeth and stubbornly looked past the old man.

"My comrades should be here with horses any minute now," he replied, completely ignoring the lumberjack's question. "We still should stay in motion."

Ria eyed him shyly.

"What about the mercenaries? Why are they not chasing us? What if they come to look for us?"

D'Artagnan already opened his mouth to give a comforting lie as a reply, but he was interrupted by a voice coming out of the shadows to their left.

"No need to worry."

The Gascon had drawn his pistol and leveled it at the shadows, who turned out to be Athos and Porthos with some horses with them.

Porthos raised his hands.

"Relax, whelp. It's just us."

Hugo eyed the newcomers skeptically, his whole body language speaking of mistrust. He turned to Athos, the only one he recognized.

"Good to know you are alive."

"Yes, I'm inclined to agree," Athos replied smoothly.

Hugo grinned darkly.

"How the hell did you escape him?"

"Not exactly voluntarily. Are you ready to leave now or would you like to waste any more time de Terré's men could use to find us?"

Hugo grumbled something incomprehensible, but he complied and mounted one of the horses.

Porthos' wild eyes scanned the area and the people d'Artagnan guided out of the enemy's estate. It didn't take him long to realize.

"Where's Aramis?" He didn't ask reproachfully, his tone was more a mixture of surprise and worry.

D'Artagnan's gaze wandered between Porthos and Athos, his eyes begging for forgiveness he didn't need to ask.

"He stayed behind," he stated flatly.

Porthos grabbed him by the shoulder, not violently, but determined. Even Athos, who was helping Ria into the saddle, looked up with a puzzled face.

"What do you mean 'he stayed behind'?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes briefly.

"I didn't have much time and there was this lock of the door and it wouldn't open and I tried everything." He made a short pause before he continued with a slightly unsteady voice. "They were coming for us. Isko and I would've never made it out. Aramis begged us to leave, he said he'll be fine."

Porthos squeezed his shoulder, a little too hard.

"Of course he said that. Stupid idiot," he exclaimed grumpily, but then he noticed the expression on his young friend's face. "It wasn't your fault, d'Artagnan," he added, sympathy in his voice, "You did your best. And you succeeded for most of the part."

D'Artagnan snorted.

"Yes. But I had to leave Aramis behind. He still is their prisoner."

Porthos lowered his gaze and turned towards his horse, while Athos handed him the reins of one of the horses and fumbled with the reins of his own.

"Aramis is a musketeer," he stated matter-of-factly, but his gaze avoided those of his comrades, "He knows the risks."

He knew that wasn't an answer that would make any of his friends content or more comfortable with the situation. But they also knew that they were at a loss what to do right now.

"We should escort them back to de la Serre's. I'll tell you the details there," d'Artagnan suggested without any emotion in his voice.

They were all seated on their horses now, and together they returned back to the estate of the Baron de la Serre.

**-MMMM-**

It took de Terré and his men quite some time to check the basement, Aramis realized and couldn't help to be a little amused. The riot that had erupted outside was clearly one of his friend's doing and Aramis was more than relieved to have learned that d'Artagnan was able to free the prisoners. They couldn't be hold against him anymore.

There was just this tiny little detail that had kept him in this cell. De Terré knew his secret. And if Aramis didn't cooperate, the Baron was more than willing to share it with the King himself.

That would not only lead to Aramis' doom, but also to the Queen's, the Dauphin's and the whole regiment's one.

Which was also the reason Aramis was a little glad the door was stuck when d'Artagnan tried to open it. Even though his heart ached for his fellow friend when he saw the desperation written all over his face, staying here was the move he had to do. He would have to free himself and shut de Terré's mouth before it was too late.

The door to the basement opened and de Terré hurried down the steps, accompanied by two of his henchmen.

When he spotted Aramis still sitting on the ground of his cell, his legs stretched out in front of him and facing the Baron's direction, a triumphant and smug smile spread over his lips.

"And I thought musketeers were known for their loyalty to one another."

Aramis stayed completely unimpressed.

"Well, yes, the circumstances just didn't allow it."

De Terré raised an eyebrow.

"I see that Isko escaped. And poor Aramis was the last in line, right?"

Aramis met his gaze with as much indifference as he could muster.

"It's not like I had a choice, is it? You made yourself quite clear the last time we spoke."

De Terré's mouth formed a crooked and intimidating smile.

"You got that right." His gaze wandered across the room and he took a few steps towards the cell, before he spoke again, his voice low.

"De la Serre will probably attack my estate soon. The Baron doesn't care about the life of a single musketeer."

"No idea where he got that from," Aramis scoffed.

"Anyway," de Terré continued, "I just want you to know one thing. You will fight against your own brothers. You will raise your sword against them. I have a messenger ready to take off to Paris with a letter of mine as soon as they see you are helping de la Serre."

Aramis gulped.

"My brothers won't kill me," he said confidently and met the Baron's face with his chin up.

De Terré already turned away, but he gazed upon his shoulder.

"No. But de la Serre got his people back. Hugo, Reive and Ria escaped. Do you really think he would care that I still have one of the King's musketeers in my claws?"

Aramis grinned darkly.

"If you think that de la Serre is your only enemy by now, you are blind as well as stupid. I won't fight against you, I know when I have the inferior cards. That doesn't mean nobody else will try to take my place."

De Terré smiled dangerously.

"You know, Aramis. Think about what's at stake for you, and for France. I'm sure that when I come back, you'll realize that fighting by my side voluntarily is your best shot. Fighting your friends or protecting your deepest and most dangerous secret. You'll be my soldier, I have no doubt."

Aramis didn't twitch a muscle.

"We'll see."

De Terré just glared at him, before he rushed up the stairs, followed by his apparently-mute bodyguards.

Aramis couldn't help but form a smug grin, while he continued to fumble with his pendant and the lock around his wrist that chained him to the wall behind his back.

If his friends were unfortunately unable to help him, he had to help himself.

**-MMMM-**

It was probably about two hours after midnight when they poured onto the clearing in front of the mansion de la Serre. The Baron, his wife and Claude were awaiting them in front of the building and their faces lit up once they spotted the prisoners on horseback.

"Thank God!" Claude exclaimed and gestured some of his housekeepers to help the people off their horses.

Gustav roared with delight once he spotted Isko and pretty much wrenched him off the animal's back and squished him into quick but intense hug. Isko replied with a smile and together, the brothers helped Reive off his horse and hurried him inside.

D'Artagnan and Athos were the last ones to jump off their horses.

Dorian de la Serre walked over to d'Artagnan, holding out a hand.

"That was a good job you did there, musketeer. You have my deepest gratitude."

D'Artagnan answered with a brief nod and shook the Baron's hand, before he handed his horse over to one of the villagers.

Athos and Porthos were already heading inside.

"Come," Athos simply said and motioned with his eyes towards the door.

D'Artagnan sighed and complied.

Once they were all inside, all of his friend's attention was on him.

"So?"

D'Artagnan stared at them in confusion.

"The details you mentioned," Porthos added impatiently, his voice obviously restrained.

"Aramis told me you should lead an attack soon," d'Artagnan replied once he got the point, "He said we shouldn't worry about him, that he'll find a way out."

Athos hesitated for a second, thinking.

"Aramis knows that there is no more leverage against him, and de Terré has no reason to prevent us from leading an open attack. Maybe Aramis wants to use the chaos to break free."

Porthos scowled.

"And how does he plan to do that? As d'Artagnan said, the cell wouldn't open. How is he supposed to come free then?"

Athos ran a hand over his face.

"You unlocked it, right? The door was just stuck. Aramis will find a way."

Porthos grunted approvingly.

"If he doesn't, I'll personally kick his ass out of there."

D'Artagnan impatiently rocked his body back and forth.

"Even if he does find a way to open the door, there is still another tiny detail that prevents him from escaping."

Athos nodded knowingly. "The chain."

D'Artagnan made a face.

"I don't know how he could get rid of that."

"And I thought you were an observant lad," a voice echoed from behind them and the three of them turned around to meet the grumpy face of Isko, who eyed d'Artagnan with a certain annoyance.

For a short while, nobody said a word, until Athos once again lost his patience.

"For the love of God, could you please come to the point?"

"He asked for his pendant. Why would he do that, heh?"

D'Artagnan looked totally lost.

"Well, I always thought it had a personal meaning to him."

Porthos snorted to prevent himself from laughing sourly.

"Witty bastard."

D'Artagnan didn't get the point. But, in all fairness, it's been a long night.

"Huh?"

Athos, obviously getting bored because of the pace of this conversation, jumped in.

"Aramis can and will use it as a lockpick."

D'Artagnan nodded, now finally catching up with the others.

"Alright, so what do we do now?"

"Introducing this Baron de Terré to my fist and blade sounds like a good idea," Porthos suggested bitterly.

"Stand in line, musketeer," Claude de la Serre who recently joined them threw in. Porthos just glared at him.

"First off, we need to catch some sleep. None of us will be a help when we can't stand any longer. "

His gaze wandered over the assembled people and locked on Claude.

"Will your men help us in an attack tomorrow?"

Claude nodded.

"Any chance to defeat this bastard is a good enough reason for me."

Athos tilted his head."Very well. There you go, d'Artagnan. That's what we are going to do."

D'Artagnan stayed skeptical."And what about Aramis?"

Athos sighed.

"Technically, it's his plan. So he's relying on us to do as he asked. I don't see much of a choice here, do you, Porthos?"

The other man shook his head.

"We're going to end this tomorrow. De Terré will be hold accountable, and Aramis will be freed."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but form a small grin. "Sounds good to me."

They already wanted to leave, but Isko turned towards Athos.

"Athos?"

"Hm?" the musketeer replied, obviously not sure what else there was to discuss.

Isko pulled out the musketeer pauldron they picked up in the basement.

"I thought you might want this back."

Athos, still wearing the dark clothing de Terré had given him, took it out of Isko's hands, and stared at it admiringly.

"Thank you."

And the others started to go their ways, probably upstairs towards the beds de la Serre offered them all. D'Artagnan hesitated for another second and watched Athos walk towards the stairs, too. Porthos was already upstairs.

D'Artagnan took a step forward and grabbed Athos firmly by the sleeve.

The older man froze.

"What is it that can't wait until tomorrow, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan nervously pressed his lips together and his eyes wandered through the room, to make sure they were alone.

"You see, when I tried to break Isko and Aramis free…," he started and noticed that within seconds, he had Athos' full attention.

D'Artagnan shook his head absent-mindedly.

"You know, it's probably nothing but…"

"D'Artagnan, spill it. No need to hold back," Athos interrupted sternly.

"Aramis didn't look too happy with the rescue. Said something about how he can't leave now. Even after I told him I freed the other prisoners he just didn't seem…enthusiastic. Like something was holding him back after all."

Athos furrowed his brow.

"And what do you think that could be?"

D'Artagnan shrugged.

"Maybe he is being extorted with something else." A thought came to his mind. "Does Aramis have any family in this area?"

Athos shook his head.

"No, not as far as I know." The older musketeer started at the ground for a few seconds, thinking, before his head shot up.

"What did you learn about de Terré when you were there? Was there anything unusual?"

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "You mean apart from the fact that he's an absolute madman?"

Athos barely registered his comment. "Perhaps Aramis knows something about him that we don't. An advantage that could help us defeat him."

D'Artagnan ran a hand over his face, shaking his head.

"I learnt nothing special. The henchmen of de Terré were all in the tavern. De Terré was alone in the mansion, with some of his guards. The innkeeper said he was in there the whole day with his uncle."

Athos' eyebrows shot up.

"His uncle?"

D'Artagnan nodded convincingly.

"A spiritual man. A priest from Paris I think. Apparently, even though he is a priest, he creeps out the men around him. It is said that he provides the Baron with all information necessary from Paris."

It was just a very brief second but d'Artagnan noticed Athos' features derailing. He returned to his dark, indifferent expression soon, but d'Artagnan couldn't help but being curious.

"Athos, what…?" but he didn't come very far.

"Aramis probably has information that we don't have," Athos replied, cutting his fellow comrade off. "Maybe he wants to use the chaos of the attack to land a strike on de Terré. We have no choice but to do as Aramis suggested."

Before d'Artagnan could interrupt for another question, Athos turned on the heel and headed towards the stairs, but halfway there he stopped once more, turning around with a grim look on his face.

"Get some sleep, d'Artagnan. We need to be fit tomorrow. And hopefully, we can return to Paris soon."

**-MMMM-**

Athos was torn out of his sleep by the door swinging open. He could've gotten three to four hours of sleep – at most. He groaned but he turned towards the door, where the giant silhouette of Porthos was visible. The musketeer was busy putting on his doublet.

"Athos?" he asked carefully when he didn't get a response.

"What is it?" Athos responded and couldn't hide the annoyance in his tone. Damn, wasn't he allowed to get a few hours of rest? In addition, his head still hurt like hell, and the constant pounding was driving him mad.

"You should come. There've been some…happenings outside. Your presence is required."

Athos rose from his bed but shot a doubtful look into Porthos' direction.

"Happenings such as?" he demanded to know.

Porthos was already halfway out of the door.

"Tréville," he answered over his shoulder and disappeared towards the stairs.

Athos was immediately spurred into action. He grabbed the doublet he received at de Terré and his boots and made haste. The captain didn't like to wait.

Once he was mostly clothed, even though it was still the uniform of de Terré's men, he hurried down the stairs and already heard the noises coming from outside the main entrance.

He opened the door and nearly ran into Porthos and d'Artagnan, both standing at the side of the door, their eyes disbelievingly staring at the space in front of them.

Riders came pouring into the place, at least fifteen to twenty musketeers in full armor, and Tréville was the head of them.

Athos felt the presence of Dorian de la Serre right next to him. He noticed the Baron stiffen at the sight. He was scared.

"Please tell me this is good news," the Baron murmured to d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan raised a single eyebrow.

"That's our captain."

Dorian de la Serre took in a deep breath.

"Any chance he is not going to murder me the second he learns what's going on?"

Porthos snorted.

"Depends on his mood."

Athos growled to shut them up and observed the scene in front of him.

Tréville jumped off his horse and examined the area, until his eyes finally locked on the three musketeers standing in the doorway. He immediately crossed the distance with a few steps.

The captain opened his mouth in an attempt to say something, but he closed it again and just stared them into the ground. It was d'Artagnan who had enough courage to meet his superior.

"Good to see you too, Captain."

Tréville looked at him with a surprisingly soft expression.

"Do you three have any idea what I went through in Paris in order to find your trace?"

Porthos folded his arms in front of his chest.

"I'm not going to apologize for being kidnapped," he defended himself.

Tréville bristled.

"I'm not asking you to. Still, I can see you here, standing here what it looks like without being forced to do so."

Athos closed his eyes. The captain's loud voice only worsened his headache. He leaned his right side against the doorframe and felt Porthos supportively squeezing his shoulder.

"By the way, where is Aramis?" Tréville added and his eyes searched them more than once, as if the marksman would appear out of nowhere.

"It's a long story, Captain," Porthos answered quietly.

"It wasn't always like this. They were in chains once," Dorian de la Serre jumped in and Tréville faced the man.

"You must be the Baron de la Serre, I assume?" the captain asked and tilted his head in a greeting manner.

De la Serre nodded.

"I can explain everything."

Tréville didn't look surprised at all.

"And I hoped you weren't involved, Baron."

De la Serre gulped.

"I will stand up for what I did. But first, why don't you let my men take care of the horses and your musketeers can rest in our tavern?"

Tréville hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded and the musketeers started to scatter. He then returned his attention to d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos. He mustered Athos from head to toe and probably realized that something was off with the uniform.

"I'd like to know everything. Here and now."

D'Artagnan sighed and exchanged a quick look with Porthos.

"Porthos and I were abducted from Paris. When I woke up, I…" He clearly hesitated for a moment. "When I woke up, de la Serre's wife was taking care of me and Porthos. I don't know what exactly happened or how we ended up here, but they cared for the two of us."

Athos sighed internally. The young musketeer didn't want it to look as if de la Serre was guilty. Noble, but knowing Tréville as well as he did, Athos doubted the captain would buy it.

And de la Serre obviously didn't like it too. He raised his hand as if to ask to say something, but Athos lightly tapped him against the shin with his boot. He shot the baron a look as if to say Don't mess this up. He is trying to save your life.

But the Baron obviously didn't care.

"As much as I appreciate your attempt to damp my dishonest actions, I need to interfere. I cannot let you vouch for me."

Tréville turned back to the Baron.

"Yes, I know, you kidnapped them." The Baron did look surprised. Athos tried to surpress a grin. Nobody was able to fool Tréville. Even not d'Artagnan with his acting skills, which, in all fairness, didn't shine bright that moment.

Tréville huffed a weak laugh.

"You are insulting me, Baron. I am not the captain of the musketeers because the King likes me so much."

Dorian nodded and made a step back again.

"I will decide how to deal with this later. First, I need to be filled in about everything. Now, d'Artagnan, please continue. And the true version this time, if you don't mind." His tone was sharp.

D'Artagnan did as he was asked and he told Tréville everything they knew, from the beginning till the end. He told him about the feud between de la Serre and de Terré, he told him about the battle that took place the certain morning. Athos took over halfway through and told him everything he had learnt from his time in de Terré's cell, and about the prisoners that were kept as leverage against them.

The further they continued, the angrier Tréville's face got.

"And what happened last night?" he asked and addressed d'Artagnan. "You mentioned about it all taking a turn because of last night."

Porthos nodded.

"Yes, d'Artagnan snuck onto de Terré's estate and freed the prisoners, as well as the warrior Isko."

Tréville waited for a moment, thinking.

"That's good work, d'Artagnan. But why didn't you free Aramis? If he is not here, I assume he is still in the captivity of de Terré?"

Athos watched d'Artagnan getting pale, and he quickly jumped in, without even moving an inch, his voice as factual and specific as usual.

"The cell door was stuck. Aramis told d'Artagnan to save himself. D'Artagnan had no choice but to leave Aramis behind."

Tréville nodded and a look of sympathy passed his face.

"Aramis is a musketeer, d'Artagnan. He knows the risk."

A growl of frustration escaped from Porthos' throat, and Athos couldn't blame him.

"If I hear one more person saying that to me today, I might murder someone."

Tréville shot Porthos a look, but didn't say anything.

"And what do you plan to do?"

Athos, for the first time during the conversation, leaned forward and rose to speak.

"Aramis told d'Artagnan we should lead an coordinated attack against de Terré. He doesn't have any innocent people in his hands anymore. All that is standing between us and de Terré are his henchmen."

Tréville's face was inscrutable.

"And why would the musketeers get involved in a battle without the consent of the King?" he asked carefully, obviously longing for one last reason.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Well, de Terré abducted and imprisoned the king's musketeers."

"Which, of course, is considered as treason and nothing the King is going to take lightly," Tréville added.

Athos withstood the gaze of Tréville for some good seconds. The captain had no reason to help them, and he had no reason to believe that de Terré might be a threat the crown should occupy itself with. But Athos also knew that the captain trusted his judgment.

The captain gave him a short nod and they started to work out their plan.


	12. The Executioner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay! Enjoy!

**Chapter 12: The Executioner**

_Plan_ was a really exaggerated title for the maneuver they had talked about. Tréville, Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan as well as Dorian and Claude de la Serre had gathered inside the mansion and worked out their "Plan". Which ended up being more a "formation plan", talking about who leads a group of attackers at which side of de Terré's estate.

Porthos, letting them have a glimpse of the strategic genius he was, suggested the formation of three groups, minimizing the risk for de la Serre and the common people that fought for him, and leaving most of the work to the soldiers, who would go into a direct attack. De la Serre and some of his people would sneak into the buildings from the other side, surprising the probably still drunk men in the tavern. At least that's what d'Artagnan reported.

Athos sighed. His head was pounding enormously, and he just couldn't wait to get back to Paris. But first, they needed to end this, here and now. He had barely been able to catch some sleep last night, and he was exhausted, even though he wouldn't admit it. Also, he spent the rest of the hours he could've used to sleep thinking about what it was that had kept Aramis in de Terré's cell, if d'Artagnan's reports were true. D'Artagnan mentioned de Terré talking to a priest from Paris, a strange and creepy one. He remembered that one evening all too well. The evening Aramis had learnt about Adele's fate, and was told that this wasn't the only secret of his that was in danger.

_The cardinal knew all your secrets. He will expose your sins from beyond the grave._ The voice still echoed in Athos' head.

If de Terré knew about this, or the priest really did share the cardinal's secrets, the safety of France itself might be endangered. And he for sure would fear for Aramis' head. And his own too, probably.

But maybe, maybe that wasn't what had happened at de Terré's that led to Aramis voluntarily staying in the basement. Perhaps he really did know about an opportunity to get de Terré from his position. Or d'Artagnan had just been mistaken.

Athos shook the thoughts off. It didn't help him right now. Now, he had to concentrate on the attack they were about to start. Once they were all settled, they prepared the horses. Athos would ride in the group with d'Artagnan, while Porthos joined Claude de la Serre and Tréville. The musketeers Tréville brought with him from Paris were split between them, and the farmers, under the command of Cristina de la Serre, already left to get to their position.

Athos and d'Artagnan quickly changed a few words with Tréville and Porthos, before they said goodbye for now and headed off into different directions.

Athos concentrated on staying focused and straight in the saddle, since his head wound screamed at him to rest, but he couldn't. Not until they finished this.

"Would you have expected that your simple bar fight would involve all of us to this degree into a battle we don't belong?" That was d'Artagnan's voice and Athos slightly turned his head to look at him, while keeping a firm grip on his horses' reins.

"If I would've known that this bar fight would end up with me and Aramis chained, and forced upon a battlefield to shred our own values, and opposed to a madman that lost all sense of morality and honor…." Athos made a short pause, drawing a deep breath. "Well, let's just say, next time I'm going to drink on my own."

D'Artagnan snorted disbelievingly.

"You know, we have the opportunity to bring down a madman, protecting the innocent. Who knows if we had ever learned about this otherwise?"

Athos grunted approvingly. D'Artagnan had no idea what Athos was thinking of, that he was more worried about the whole priest affair than the feud between de Terré and de la Serre itself.

"Yes. Next time, let's try this without being kidnapped, beaten, chained, and nearly killed."

D'Artagnan grimaced.

"Sounds good to me."

**-MMMM-**

Aramis knew there was an attack coming the moment he heard loud voices, shouting at each other outside, only dimmed by the thick wooden door that separated him from the civilization upstairs. He knew what was going to happen soon, and he had spent all the past hours figuring out what he was going to do. He had a plan now. He wouldn't dare to say it was a good one, but everything was better than to play this game without rules.

He barely flinched when he heard gunshots outside, and he realized with a smirk that d'Artagnan had done what he had told him. They had launched an attack, and de Terré would pay for all he did today. When he heard steps coming down the stairs, he crawled backwards into the corner of the cell, and awaited his victim on his knees.

One single man, in which Aramis recognized the bodyguard of de Terré, broke through the door and greeted him with a demonic smile. Aramis tried to ignore the nervousness that he felt running through every inch of his body, and he focused on staying tense, every muscle prepared for what he was going to do now. His good eye scanned the bodyguard's body for all the weapons he was carrying. By now, he was able to open his other, badly bruised eye just a tiny bit, but it was just distracting him and blurring his vision unnecessarily. The guard came to a halt in front of his cell, the key to the cell in his hands.

"Musketeer," he was greeted and the man showed his teeth in a grotesque smile. "You are needed upstairs."

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

"I'd be thrilled to be at your assistance, but as long as you don't bring anyone down here in front of me, for me to kick or strangle with my chain, I fear I'm no help."

The bodyguard ignored Aramis' comment and started fumbling on the lock, just as d'Artagnan did last night.

"So, de la Serre is attacking, am I right?" Aramis continued his babbling, trying to get as much Information out of the man as possible.

The man growled.

"Side by side with a lot of musketeers. But it's going to surprise them, when they notice one of their own is fighting against them."

Aramis just gritted his teeth, loudly, while the bodyguard cursed because of the blocked door. He sighed then, took a step back, before he threw himself hard against the iron bars of the door. It took him a few tries, but finally, the door yielded under the man's impressive force.

He towered over Aramis with the key for the chain in his hands, obviously not bothering to bend down to unlock them. He pulled the rapier from his belt and pointed at the musketeer. Aramis' eye was on his weapons, the rapier in his hands, the pistol attached to his belt and the two daggers at each side.

"Up," the man commanded and waved with the key to gesture him what he was going to do.

Aramis stayed on his knees, feeling the cold metal of his pendant swaying comfortingly against his chest. He lifted his head to stare into the eyes of his opponent.

"I'll pass."

The man raised an eyebrow, a disgusting laughter escaping his lips.

"You don't want to know what I'll do to you if you don't get up now." He lowered his gaze, his dark eyes flashing dangerously through the black cellar. "I think you are going to stand up now, pick up your sword and raise it against your captain."

Aramis glared at him, slowly pulling his free hands from behind his back.

"I think not."

Within a second, he tackled the man to the ground, knocking all air out of him. Before his opponent could swing his rapier or stab Aramis in the back, he reached for one of the daggers, and thrust it into the man's upper arm. Out of reflexes, the man let go of his rapier, but soon patted along his hip to reach for his pistol, but Aramis was quicker. He crawled across the room, got a hold of his own parrying dagger, and threw it as fast as he could at the man. It hit him in the chest, and he sank to his knees.

"And they only praise my skill with firearms…," he muttered, more to himself than to his opponent.

Aramis got closer, staying on an eye level with the man, while he tried to close his hands around Aramis' throat. The musketeer just looked at him, and he was nearly sorry. But only nearly.

"I'm not going to watch you slaughter innocent people any longer. This is going to stop, today," Aramis hissed and thrust the blade to the man's heart. When it was finished, he lifted himself into a standing position, before he made his way over to the pile in the corner, where all of his equipment was stored. He had no time to adjust his armor, but he grabbed the most important things, like his rapier and his guns, before he made his way upstairs, quickly pulling the disguise of the clothing he wore over his face. No need to show his treason too early or obviously.

The scene he was greeted with was pure chaos. The space in front of de Terré's mansion was flooded with hooded mercenaries, trying to defend themselves against the hordes of cavalry that poured onto the place from two directions.

Aramis quickly looked into each direction, looking for any person that could possibly be the messenger de Terré had talked about. His eye roamed all over the place, until it finally came to rest on one of de Terré's mercenaries on horseback, staring at Aramis and watching very closely what he was about to do.

Aramis gritted his teeth, forcing himself to raise his sword to parry the blow of a rider, a musketeer, that charged towards him. Aramis had a lot more balance than the musketeer anticipated and the impact threw the man out of the saddle. The horse continued to gallop and reared up in front of the massive building Aramis just escaped from. The musketeer was a young cadet. Aramis recognized him as Dragon, a former tailor, who had joined the regiment only a month ago. No matter what was at stake, Aramis would never kill him. But he was under the watch of the messenger, who carried the letter endangering the future of France. And his own.

Aramis didn't wait until Dragon picked himself up, and quickly turned around, charging into another duel, this time with a farmer he didn't know. Aramis clearly had the upper hand and ended the duel with a punch against his opponent's head, hoping it wouldn't be too bad.

When he had the chance, he could try to shoot the messenger with one of his pistols. But unfortunately, as long as he couldn't make a perfect and certain shot, he couldn't risk it. He stood in the middle of the place, and had to roll sideways so he didn't get run over by a horse that was about to trample him. He looked up, watching the rider shoot one of the mercenaries. Aramis recognized the rider as Tréville, and his heart stung as he realized his mentor could've killed him.

"I see you decided to play along. Good choice!" Aramis heard the voice of de Terré and the musketeer whirled around to see the baron and two bodyguards hurrying towards a carriage. Aramis could shoot him. The Baron was close enough to be a clear target. But he didn't have a horse, and the messenger would be long gone until Aramis could reach him. So he forced a brief nod and already turned around, when he saw de Terré raising his gun and aiming it at one of the musketeers, one that rapidly stormed towards him on horseback. A loud bang and the rider, losing control over his horse, got knocked out of the saddle and hit the ground hard.

Aramis' world turned white with anger the moment the man slightly lifted his head, and Aramis recognized Porthos, lying in the dust trying to regain control over his breathing. Normally, he would've turned around, taking his aim to shoot the head off de Terré's shoulders, but the worry and regret took over and in a moment of weakness, he rushed over to his friend.

He was greeted by a furious Porthos, who swung his blade at Aramis and only missed because of the musketeer's good reflexes. Aramis cursed colorfully and hastily pulled down the disguise.

"Calm yourself, my friend, it's me," he explained.

Porthos' eyes went wide in realization and he bore his teeth in pain.

"Bloody hell, Aramis. What were you thinking? I almost stabbed you."

Aramis froze, his hands still clawed into Porthos' jacket. The time seemed to run slower as he looked up and met the gaze of de Terré. The Baron's mouth was contorted with an evil grin, the sour glare of betrayal throwing daggers into Aramis' direction. His right hand shot up in the air, giving a signal to a messenger, and sealing Aramis' doom.

Porthos' eyes followed Aramis' and apparently, he noticed de Terré getting into the carriage.

"Go, get the Baron!" Porthos growled and propped up on his good elbow, but Aramis, desperately biting his cheeks, shook his head.

"I'm not going to leave you here alone, Porthos!" Aramis yelled, letting out his frustration and fear, even though he knew nobody was to blame but himself.

"I'll take care of him, now go!" d'Artagnan, having appeared out of nowhere, shouted and gently slapped Aramis' shoulder. Aramis nodded thankfully, before he grabbed the reins of Porthos' horse and lifted himself into the saddle. The mare reared up, and Aramis turned his head indecisively. Should he go after the messenger or de Terré? Every muscle in his body wanted to go after the messenger, but de Terré had to pay for what he'd done.

Suddenly, Athos appeared by his side, like a gift from above. Seeing his friend after he was presumed dead filled Aramis with new hope, and despite his desperate situation, a grin appeared on his lips. Athos was also on top of his large Friesian, frantically trying to grasp the situation, and obviously relieved to see Aramis.

"Athos, the messenger. Over there!" Aramis shouted before he dug his heels into his horse's flanks, going after de Terré's carriage. Athos, thankfully, did as Aramis asked, going after the messenger who took off towards Paris without hesitation. He seemed to have seen the pleading and desperation in Aramis eyes and trusted his friend completely.

Aramis, resting assured that Athos for sure would get that messenger, pushed his horse into a fast gallop, going after the carriage, and it didn't take long for the musketeer to catch up with the heavy vehicle, whose horses weren't made for speed.

Once he was only one length away from the carriage, de Terré stuck his head out and Aramis missed him with his pistol only by inches. The Baron's only reaction was a mad laughter.

"The messenger is already gone, Aramis. You could've chased him, but instead you choose to waste your time with me."

"Well, I get more joy out of killing you than one innocent, mislead henchmen of yours!" Aramis shot back over the noisy wind. Next, he drew his other pistol, aimed more carefully this time and managed to shoot the man on the coach box. The horses still continued to run, following the path as precisely as they could.

Aramis brought his own horse as close as he could, and he was incredibly lucky de Terré didn't have time to reload his gun yet. The horses of the carriage didn't slow down, so it was quite a challenge to open the door without falling off his horse, but Aramis did it, only to be greeted with de Terré's rapier being swung at him. He quickly brought back some distance between him and the carriage, evading some rocks that blocked the middle of the road.

Then, he steered his horse to the right, getting it as close to the door as he possibly could, when he took his chance, and he jumped right out of the saddle and crashed through the open door and landed on top of the Baron. Luckily, he didn't end up impaled on the nobleman's sword.

Within seconds, Aramis felt hands closing in around his throat, and he realized that there wasn't enough space for an old fashioned duel.

"So you left your people behind like pawns on a chessboard to save your own sorry life, am I right?" Aramis hissed and immediately felt the grip around his neck tightening.

"Well, I can't have my revenge when I am dead, wouldn't you agree?" de Terré countered, his face angry red and his fingers digging into Aramis' throat.

"Why don't you end this trying to maintain something that you missed since the day I met you?" Aramis choked out between two strangled breaths.

De Terré growled, but apparently got distracted enough to loosen his grip a little bit.

"And what would that be?" the Baron snarled.

Aramis managed a weak, smug grin.

"Honor."

The Baron's face froze for a second, before his eyes widened, mirroring the insanity of his mind.

"Honor?" he asked, laughing a very high-pitched laugh, before his face turned deadly serious, and he grabbed Aramis by the collar. "As you wish. I'll show you what I think about honor."

And with these words, he threw Aramis out of the carriage without hesitation. Not that the marksman was actually surprised by this. All he wanted was a duel with this man, which was hard to do in cramped room of the carriage. Still, he wished that maybe the last move wouldn't have been necessary, since there were better things than being thrown out of a full speed carriage onto the rocky floor of the street. Pain, white and hot, suddenly exploded in his left leg and brought tears into his eyes as it was crumbled by his own weight and the impact of his fall. It was just a brief second, before it felt like it shifted back to normal, but still, Aramis hadn't been prepared for a handicap. He should've planned this better.

Then, he spotted de Terré. The Baron elegantly jumped out of the much slower carriage and landed on the floor totally balanced, in a ridiculously arrogant pose. Aramis gritted his teeth while he lifted himself into a standing position. His left knee trembled, and Aramis shifted all of his weight on his right leg. Perfect situation for a life and death duel.

De Terré pulled out his rapier and wielded it unnecessarily, challenging the musketeer the old-fashioned way.

"There. Here you got your honor," the Baron snarled.

Aramis stayed unimpressed, drawing his sword as well.

"The only thing this might give you is an honorable death. It won't be enough to make up for your sins."

The two men circled each other like predators, and Aramis tried his best not to lose his balance. His beaten face was enough of a handicap.

De Terré lifted his head.

"Before I kill you, I want you to know that this was nothing personal."

Aramis grinned darkly.

"You made it personal the moment you asked for our names."

Without any further hesitation, Aramis landed the first strike, a well-placed, hard blow that had helped him gaining the upper hand against Athos in training multiple times. De Terré stumbled, but blocked Aramis' sword. The Baron reacted quickly, landing multiple, quick blows with his rapier and forcing Aramis into a defensive mode. Aramis hissed when he felt the Baron's blade slice into his upper arm, but it felt as if it was only superficial and Aramis simply ignored it, concentrating on blocking each of the Baron's attacks.

The pain from his left leg brought tears into his eyes, but Aramis' mind was nowhere else than the duel he was engaged in right now. The Baron launched another hard attack aiming for Aramis' chest, but the musketeer dove underneath the blade and managed to graze the Baron's lower chest.

The nobleman cursed and made a quick step back, blocking Aramis' next strike last second. Now, he was furious. With both hands on the handle, he let down two hard attacks on Aramis, who blocked the first and escaped the second one barely. Then, they started circling each other again, rapiers held out in front of them to keep each other at distance.

"You know, with the decision to go after me, you doomed yourself and France itself. I never thought you'd be so selfish."

Aramis merely grinned.

"Never underestimate the musketeers. Whatever plans criminal scum like you makes, we will always make sure justice comes for you and the ones working for you."

Without wasting any more time with words, Aramis landed another strike, one the Baron was unprepared for. The Baron's dagger flew far away, but de Terré quickly lashed out with his rapier, missing Aramis' head only by inches. Aramis made a step to the side, dragging his injured leg through the dust dramatically, to show his opponent his injured state. The Baron managed a smug grin before he lanced another attack, aiming for Aramis' knee. Even though the pain was enormous, Aramis quickly spun around as soon as the Baron was close enough, knocking his elbow against the nobleman's head and piercing his parrying dagger deep into de Terré's sword-arm. The man howled in pain and dropped his sword, which Aramis quickly kicked out of reach.

The kick resulted in the musketeer to lose his balance, and Aramis fell on top of the unarmed Baron, quickly grabbing him by the collar with one arm and punching his face hard.

"This is for kidnapping me…," he started before throwing another punch. "And this is for threatening my friends and the fate of the country."

He only made a short pause before he threw another punch at the seemingly capitulating Baron.

"And this is for the innocent boy I had to kill under your command. May it haunt you forever, you immoral bastard." The image of the farmboy he had involuntarily stabbed with a knife during the attack on de la Serre's property appeared in front of his eyes.

He took a deep breath and landed one more, final punch before stumbling backwards and awkwardly standing up to draw a pistol and point it at his defeated enemy. De Terré spit out and looked up into the eyes of Aramis.

"And what was the last one for?"

Aramis smirked grimly.

"For the lecture of my Captain I'll have to endure thanks to you." His expression turned into a mask of hate again. "Now, you can see where violence and treason brings you."

De Terré's face turned into a grimace.

"I'm not the traitor here!" he spat. "_You_ disgraced this country, _you_ committed high treason, and yes, I happened to learn about this accidentally and turn it to my advantage. Differences between two high-born men are no crimes, _Monsieur Aramis_."

"You really think this is all? You really think that prisoners don't talk to each other? Isko told me everything." Aramis made a short pause, not taking the gun away from the Baron's head. "You murdered your older brother in order to receive the title. You slaughtered half of your village to make sure no one ever dares to question your nobility. You imprisoned children of de la Serre's, hunted them through the wilds after you exiled them just for the fun of it, because of whatever sick feud erupted between you two. And, now it gets interesting, you even asked the King to pay for the damage of your crimes all these months ago, under false claims. What do you think the King will do to you when he learns what his money you asked for in order to protect your lands really had been used for?"

De Terré's expression didn't falter. He swallowed hard before he answered.

"I may end up in prisons for what I did. But you, musketeer, you and the Queen, you are going to lose your heads."

Aramis growled.

"That's not going to happen."

The Baron didn't fail to show off an arrogant and self-confident grin.

"I did it for her. For de la Serre's daughter. I love her and she is my queen. You'd like to know the difference between you and me, musketeer?"

Aramis scowled.

"I can give you a list." He stared at the Baron's eyes, wide opened in his insanity. "But please, feel free to enlighten me."

"I may die _for_ my queen. But you are going to die _with_ yours."

Aramis glared at the Baron, his jaws clenched tightly. He didn't know what to say, his anger was dampening all of his other common senses, and it got even more powerful when he saw the expression of a sudden idea flashing over the nobleman's face, who now grinned at him triumphantly.

"You have no right to kill me. You are a musketeer. You can arrest me. But only the King himself can condemn me to death. I have the right for a fair trial!"

Aramis shook his head slowly.

"Wow. I knew a lot of you noblemen have difficulties to understand that they're not invincible, but you are really surpassing what precedes your reputation. Let me ask you a question, Baron de Terré…" Aramis started and dared to take his eyes off his enemy for a split second. "Do you see the King somewhere?"

De Terré just stared at Aramis, not giving in.

"It's just you and me. I really wished it wouldn't have come so far. Would've been better for all of us." Aramis briefly closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Anything else to say?"

De Terré spat on the ground.

"I did it out of love," the Baron said bitterly. "And believe me, I showed mercy. But if it hadn't come this far, you'd still be in my basement, doing as I say, while you'd have to watch me hunt down your friends, taking every person you ever loved down with me. A pity I didn't have the chance. I would've enjoyed it."

Aramis felt the anger pulsating through his veins again and tightened the grip around the pistol.

"Not your wisest last words."

"What are you waiting for, musketeer?"

Aramis gritted his teeth, ready to get over with it, when he suddenly heard a familiar voice from behind, incredibly calm and controlled, but with its usual slightly sneering tone.

"Aramis. Don't."


	13. A Helping Hand

**Chapter 13: A Helping Hand**

"Aramis. Don't."

The voice reached through his red curtain of wrath and hate and pulled him back, grounding him to a certain degree in reality.

_Athos_. With a perfect timing as usual.

Aramis, not lowering his weapon an inch, turned his head to look at his friend. Athos stood a few lengths away from him, unarmed, but with one hand raised to calm his friend. Aramis blinked at him through tangled strands of hair, trying to grasp what he has just been told.

"You have no idea what he has done. I can't risk letting him go."

Athos' expression stayed cold and serious.

"He deserves a fair trial, Aramis, and you know that as well as I do."

Aramis drew in a sharp breath and stared at his friend, still very much aware of every movement de Terré tried to make.

"So much for he fell in battle," the Baron snarled at the sight of Athos. But he didn't seem to care much. "But there you have it, musketeer," he said to Aramis and made an attempt to get on his feet. Aramis made a step forward, aiming the pistol at the Baron's head.

"Don't move!" he yelled.

"Aramis…," Athos warned from the sideline and tilted his head in order to catch his friend's gaze. Once Aramis was sure that the Baron wouldn't dare to move again, he turned his head again, his one eye locked on Athos'.

"Did you get the messenger?" Aramis asked, his voice nothing more but a strong whisper.

Athos nodded.

"Yes."

Relief flooded through Aramis' veins and he briefly closed his eye.

"And did you read the letter he carried with him?"

"I did."

"Then you know what's at stake. I can't risk it."

Athos took another step towards him, not taking his gaze away from Aramis' eye, his own pleading for Aramis to understand.

"He is defeated," Athos said and motioned to the Baron, "You don't have the right to kill a defeated nobleman who surrendered." He spoke the words with such sincerity and determination that Aramis finally caught on with Athos' plan.

Aramis wasn't an executioner. Athos was right. He was a soldier, fighting for France and his own survival in battles, not a trained assassin. For his own sanity, he had to spare this nobleman now.

Aramis turned back to de Terré now, meeting the Baron's arrogant stare with an ice cold glare.

"Unfortunately, he is right, Baron. And Athos here could verify if I'd killed you, and the King and the Captain would not like that." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Athos, even though one hand was still raised in a calming gesture, the other one he had on the hilt of his sword.

Aramis took a step back and lowered his pistol, but kept a tight grip on the dagger he had in his other hand, very much aware of the rapier that lay in the mud next to him.

"You'll get your trial. And Athos and I, as well as half of your village, we can testify everything we saw and all of your numerous crimes. I will make sure you get your trial, Baron. But as long as I am alive, you will never be a free man again."

The last words seemed to have the desired effect. The Baron's eyes glowed with a new anger, and a new fighting spirit. Aramis faked an annoyed growl and turned his back on the Baron.

The reaction was immediate.

Aramis could hear the Baron leaping towards the rapier and trying to stab the musketeer in the back, and he heard Athos shouting warningly, but Aramis was prepared. He dropped his pistol and with the dagger in his hand, he dodged the Baron's attack and in one last, swift move, he stabbed the man in the chest, while keeping him upright with his other hand.

The Baron's eyes widened when the realization struck him, and his eyes were filled with hatred and anger to a degree Aramis didn't think possible. The musketeer let go of the nobleman and made a step back, while the Baron sank to his knees, but not loosening the grip he had on the rapier. Aramis watched as the Baron's eyes lost its passionate, angry sparkle and turned empty towards the sky, his body hitting the dusty floor moments later.

Aramis stood there for a second, his gaze locked on his enemy.

He barely noticed Athos walking up to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"You are right. I heard from de la Serre what other crimes he committed. And I read the letter. He was too dangerous to be left alive." He searched for Aramis' gaze, and he had an unfamiliar, mischievous glistering in his eyes. "But now it seems you acted out of self-defense. You had no choice."

Aramis nodded slowly.

"That was a good objection, Athos."

Athos chuckled dryly.

"Took you long enough to catch up."

Aramis closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain spreading through his leg and face.

"Forgive me. It's been some tiring couple of days." He noticed Athos' head wound and the musketeer's slightly disorientated look. "But I think you know what I'm talking about."

Athos sighed.

"I do." The swordsman looked down to the body of his enemy. "He was a beast. What he did to his own people…I thought I had seen the incarnation of evil. But he…" He stopped and looked Aramis straight in the eye.

"The letter. That's how he kept you in line. How did he know?"

Aramis returned the look, staring blankly at his friend.

"You remember the cardinal's priest? He is his uncle."

Athos nodded.

"That's what I thought. But you killed him out of self-defense. And to be honest, even a lifetime stay in the Bastille would've been too good for him. We could not have risked to have him reach Paris."

Aramis put on a weak smile and nodded, grateful for the swordsman's support. He had noticed Athos said we instead of you, implying that he would help him to conceal this matter, for whatever reasons.

"I'm gonna get the horses," Athos now announced and strode over towards the end of the road, where Aramis' horse had fled to and Athos had left his own.

Aramis took the moment of silence to take a deep breath. It took a minute for him to realize he had actually got out of this mostly unscathed. The threat towards the Queen and the Dauphin was gone. This madman who had terrorized his own people for months had been brought to justice. Perhaps not the King's justice. But justice.

He sighed and shakily knelt down next to de Terré and closed his eyes, murmuring a short blessing; even though he wasn't sure he really meant it.

And he still was shocked, but the relief conjured the hint of a grin on his face. His loved ones were safe. The innocent were safe. He did good, after all.

Athos returned with two horses a few moments later, handing the reins of Porthos' horse over to his friend. Afterwards, he tilted his head towards the Baron's body, which was still lying in the dirt.

"We're taking him back with us."

Without wasting any more time on words, Athos took the Baron by the armpits and Aramis lifted up the legs, and together, they heaved him up on the back of Athos' horse, securing him with a rope. Athos laid a hand on Aramis' arm.

"We should get back to de Terré's. They're probably waiting there."

Aramis nodded tiredly and gently ran a hand over his horse's fur, taking in deep breaths to help control the trembling of his injured leg. He noticed very well that Athos was still on the ground, watching him intensely, but he also knew Athos would let him try first before he'd offer help.

Aramis put his foot in the stirrup and clawed onto the saddle and the mane of the horse to stay upright. In order to mount, he had to put his whole weight on his left leg, but it felt so unstable Aramis had doubts that he was able to mount gracefully. But without further hesitation, he swung his right leg up over the horseback. Pain exploded in his left knee and he lost balance, but he managed to prevent his fall last second by digging his hand into the mare's fur on the other side of the animal's neck. He quickly straightened up and took the reins in his hands, but he didn't overhear Athos' slightly annoyed sigh.

But the swordsman didn't say anything, so Aramis quickly spurred his horse into action and heard Athos following behind him.

**-MMMM-**

The noise of swords being thrown on the ground and the hands raised up high announced the end of this short, but brutal battle. Tréville, accompanied by four musketeers, was still on top of his horse, and now circled the building to get back to the main square in front of the mansion to get a view over the situation.

His musketeers as well as de la Serre's farmers chased the defeated mercenaries to the mansion, rounding them up as their prisoners. Tréville already wanted to order some musketeers to search the whole place for their last missing member, Aramis, when he was stopped by d'Artagnan.

The young musketeer approached his captain, his face a mixture of exhaustion and concern. Tréville noticed d'Artagnan's hands were coated in fresh blood, though he wasn't able to find the wound which may've caused this.

"Is everyone alright?" Tréville asked urgently, scanning the area with his eyes. D'Artagnan's concerned face didn't help to ease his nerves, even though he didn't show his nervousness openly. As the Captain, he needed to stay focused.

The Gascon only answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Porthos is getting his shoulder looked at," he finally replied flatly.

"He's injured?" Tréville responded.

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Shot. It was de Terré."

Tréville scowled.

"Does anyone know where this man is, so I can lock him in the Bastille myself?" he hissed.

D'Artagnan bit his lip, his eyes wandering over all of the hooded mercenaries that were being forced on their knees and secured with ropes.

"Aramis went after him," he finally admitted.

Tréville let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"So, he is alive?"

"Who, Aramis?" d'Artagnan replied confused.

"Who else?" Tréville shot back a little hasher than planned. D'Artagnan didn't even blink.

"Well, let's say he was last time I saw him."

"And Athos?" Tréville asked, a little annoyed he had to pry every detail out of d'Artagnan.

"Don't know. Maybe he went after Aramis." The Gascon's voice was worried, and Tréville couldn't blame him. The four of them had been put through a lot the last couple of days. It needed to end.

Tréville nodded and ran a hand over his beard, quickly gathering his thoughts.

"Alright. Make sure the prisoners will be secured. I'll send out someone to look for de Terré and Aramis."

Guillaume, the musketeer on the horse next to Tréville, leaned over his animal's neck and cleared his throat to get his Captain's attention.

"I don't think that'll be necessary, Sir." And he pointed towards the entrance of the small village, in western direction. Tréville followed his gaze and his eyes landed on two riders, slowly approaching the group of people gathered on the place. A mantle of silence enveloped them. Everyone suddenly went quiet as they saw the two men, who slowly approached the waiting crowd.

Tréville recognized Aramis as the first rider, and it took a load off Tréville's mind to see his lost musketeer alive. Then, he saw that it was Athos who followed behind Aramis, his horse moving a little slower because of a body that was slung over the horse's back. Tréville didn't need to see the noble clothing or the family emblem embroidered on the man's sleeve to know that this was the Baron de Terré. And judging by his appearance, it was too late for a trial for him.

The mercenaries stared at their fallen leader with a mixture of shock and disbelief, while de la Serre's farmers cheered and fell into the arms of each other, celebrating their newly won safety.

Aramis and Athos came to a halt in front of Tréville, both of them bowing their heads slightly. Tréville took a short moment to inspect them. Athos looked more or less the same than he did before the battle started, though he had a scratch on his chin and was covered in dust. Aramis, who Tréville hadn't seen in days, looked rough. The right side of his face was covered in bruises, that were turning green by now, and occasionally traces of old, dried blood covered the very same side thanks to some shallow cuts. His eye was swollen enormously, and the captain was fairly certain that the marksman could only see him through one eye right now. It was very unsettling to see a musketeer in the same uniform all these brutes wore, but Tréville knew that Athos and Aramis had been forced to fight. A dark stain of blood covered Aramis' right arm, but Tréville wasn't sure the soldier was even aware of it.

Though he did look exhausted, he scanned the environment hectically.

"Where's Porthos?" he asked urgently, panic written all over his face.

Athos jumped off his horse elegantly, which was unusual due to his head wound, and hurried to steady Aramis as he dismounted as well. Aramis turned to d'Artagnan.

"Well?"

D'Artagnan, obviously swamped with the current events, replied with a confused look.

"Porthos is going to be fine, Aramis. He's in the house, somebody is taking care of him."

Aramis grunted and turned on the heel, heading for the house. Tréville noticed he was limping badly. The captain dismounted and turned to Athos with a questioning gaze, and the swordsman, undazzled as usual, tilted his head in front of his captain.

"Sir, I'd like to report the death of the Baron de Terré. He fell in combat."

Tréville gave an annoyed sigh.

"Yes, I can see that." He already wanted to question Athos when he noticed the Baron de la Serre, approaching Aramis from the side as he almost made it to the house.

Without saying another word, Tréville ran over to the Baron and his musketeer, just in time to catch what they were saying.

"…are you?" Aramis was asking tiredly.

Dorian de la Serre's gaze wandered over the fallen de Terré, the assembled crowd and finally came to rest on Aramis.

"You seem to be the man who killed de Terré, am I right?"

Aramis snorted.

"And if I were?"

De la Serre took off his hat.

"You prevented the total destruction of my family and my people. I owe you my gratitude, Musketeer."

A dangerous expression appeared in Aramis' eyes, and Tréville was too slow to prevent what happened next.

"So you must be Baron de la Serre," Aramis growled and with a speed Tréville would've never expected of a man in his state, he grabbed the Baron by the collar.

"Aramis!" Athos called, apparently not able to hide the shock in his voice, but Aramis didn't listen.

"De Terré was a monster, no doubt. But he didn't become a monster out of nowhere. He said you denied your daughter to him, even though they loved each other dearly. Is it true?"

"What…?" de la Serre stuttered.

"Is it true?" Aramis repeated.

"Aramis, let go of him!" Athos demanded, but was ignored again.

"And you actually believed what he said?" de la Serre answered in a high-pitched voice, and he now grabbed Aramis' hand on his collar firmly.

"You don't know the whole story. But I'll explain it to you."

Aramis let go of him immediately, clutching on the entrance to the mansion for support.

"They loved each other, yes, they did. But my daughter did not want to marry him, do you understand? She knew what kind of a man he was. And when she told him she was scared, his soft and innocent side was washed away and the real Raston de Terré came to the surface. He used violence against her. It scarred her to the point where she didn't want to leave the house anymore, because she thought he might be everywhere, waiting for her. That's why I declared war on him. I swear."

Aramis swallowed visibly, his eyes scanning the Baron in front of him.

"You did the right thing, Musketeer. You saved the lives of many innocent people. And that's why I want to thank you."

Aramis nodded, steering his gaze towards the ground, now looking a lot less intimidating.

"I am sorry." He offered his hand to the Baron. "I owe you my sincere apology."

De la Serre smiled at him, shaking his hand and patting him on the arm reassuringly.

"You have nothing to apologize for, musketeer."


	14. Pour le Roi et la Patrie

**Chapter 14: Pour le Roi et la Patrie**

Aramis wasn't satisfied until he had seen Porthos with his own eyes. The tall musketeer was sitting on a chair, looking exhausted, but the wound had been taken care of, and he had vigorously assured his friend that he was going to be fine.

Even though Aramis insisted on having a look on Porthos shoulder himself, Tréville finally decided to put in a word.

"D'Artagnan!" he said and turned to the young musketeer. The Gascon looked up into his Captain's eyes, a little unsure how to react. "I want you to stay with Porthos. Athos, Aramis, with me."

The two men looked up in surprise. They had been so busy with themselves that they didn't pay any attention to their Captain the whole time, and a guilty look covered their faces now that they realized it.

Tréville led them to a small room on the other side of the building, bringing as much distance between the other men as he could. It took a little while longer, because Aramis moved very slowly with his injured leg, but every time Athos offered to support him, the marksman declined.

They finally arrived in a small room, probably something like a small kitchen, Tréville wasn't sure. Athos closed the door and leaned against it, his arms folded in front of his chest. Aramis chose to lean against the wall for support while Tréville sat on the edge of the table.

"So? Who is going to explain to me what happened? And again, I want the whole story."

He noticed Athos and Aramis exchanging a quick look, before Aramis sighed dramatically and ran a hand over his hair.

"When you attacked his estate, the Baron had me unchained to fight for him."

Tréville furrowed his brow.

"Why would you do that? He didn't have any prisoners left to control you."

Aramis shook his head, a smug grin appearing on his face.

"He thought the mere threat of violence would be enough. But I was able to break free, and when I had the chance, I grabbed Porthos' horse and went after him when he tried to escape."

He made a short pause, his gaze locked on the wooden tiles of the floor.

"Well, long story short, we fought, I won."

Tréville's grip on the table tightened as he tried to control his feelings.

"And you killed him? You don't need me to tell you that you'd have to try to arrest him first. You served long enough as a musketeer to be aware of the fact that he would've deserved a trial."

Aramis' face turned to stone and he lifted his head slowly, a spark of anger glistening in his eyes. Before he was able to reply anything, Athos jumped in.

"Aramis tried to arrest him, and explained the Baron how things would go from now on. The Baron took a chance and tried to stab Aramis in the back. He killed him out of self-defense."

Tréville knew very well how he probably looked right now. A mixture of doubt and sympathy was written all over his face.

"I don't know if that will suffice for the King." He took a relieved breath. "Where have you been by the way?"

Athos, whose eyes seemed to be very interested in the floor, lifted his head in surprise, and the hint of fright passed his face, before he answered sincerely.

"My arrival was a little delayed. My horse bolted." He looked deadly serious.

Tréville raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

Aramis sighed.

"Concerning the King, we should search the Baron's stuff. He used royal funds for his criminal and inhuman acts in this village. What do you say the King will say about that?"

"You're joking, right?" Tréville responded.

Aramis shook his head.

"Unfortunately not. He received financial support from the crown after he disassembled the whole village himself."

"Well, that should be enough reason for the King. You all have been through enough. I'm not going to hold against you that you killed the Baron. He was a monster, even I know that."

Aramis tilted his head gratefully and stared at his Captain with tired eyes.

"Athos, why don't you go and check on Porthos and d'Artagnan?" Tréville suggested sharply.

"I'm sure d'Artagnan has everything under control, Captain…," Athos replied absent-mindedly and waved with his hand.

"I'll have to insist," Tréville said and shot the swordsman a piercing look. Athos looked up, met the Captain's eyes and bowed his head.

"As you wish."

And he turned on the heel, and threw Aramis an indecisive look before he closed the door behind his back.

"Now, Aramis," Tréville said and folded his arms in front of his chest. Aramis looked at him nervously. "You were one of the first soldiers who joined the regiment. You know the rules, you know the practices. I know you could as well disarm the Baron and arrest him. Why didn't you?"

He almost felt sorry for the musketeer, but he didn't believe that Aramis hadn't been able to disarm the Baron and arrest him later.

"I was a little worn out, Captain, and I was injured. It limited my combat skills. I didn't have the necessary strength to arrest the Baron again."

The words were brutal lies, and Tréville knew that. But the marksman's eyes told Tréville the truth, and the truth seemed to be too dangerous to be spoken aloud.

The truth seemed to be that Aramis did kill him because he left him no choice.

Tréville sighed.

"Listen, Aramis, as much as I appreciate that you saved these innocent people and took out this monster, you didn't do it up to code. I'll overlook it today. But you have your orders." He tried his best to do his Captain-voice, since he really sided with Aramis on this one. But it wasn't how it was supposed to go. "Next time, it won't be that easy for you to get away with something you did out of personal interests."

The last words seemed to hit the musketeers like daggers, and he looked up, his lips quivering with disappointment in his Captain. Tréville felt like he had betrayed his own values when he saw how close his words hit one of his best soldiers.

Aramis' eyes locked on Trévilles and the Captain could see a determination and seriousness in his eyes he hadn't seen often.

"Do you trust me?" the musketeer asked with a firm voice.

Tréville frowned.

"Yes, Aramis. I never doubted your sincerity I merely said you should consider rearranging your interests." The words coming out of his mouth felt so wrong the second he said them, but he was the Captain, lecturing his soldier, not a friend advising a friend.

"Then believe me, Sir. I did what I did because of what's best for the King and France. It was the only way to protect both from a monstrous evil."

Tréville hesitated for a second and withstood his musketeer's intense gaze, but then his expression softened.

"I believe you, Aramis. I just need you to understand."

Aramis took a step forward, swaying dangerously.

"I do, Captain." His gaze wandered over the room. "Asking for permission to return to Porthos."

Tréville closed his eyes, briefly.

"Granted."

But before Aramis could make his way out of the door, Tréville quickly got into his way and took Aramis' hand, shaking it as he pulled the man against his shoulder in an awkward half-hug.

"You are alright, Aramis. It's over," he whispered, leaving his Captain mask aside for a brief moment. A squeeze on his shoulder was Aramis' only answer, and Tréville guided his limping musketeer back to the others.

**-MMMM-**

Porthos was seated on a chair, sweat glistering on his forehead, but he was awake and his shoulder was bandaged. D'Artagnan was sitting next to him, engaged in a quiet conversation with the taller musketeer. Athos leaned by the door, his eyes shooting up the second he heard Tréville and Aramis enter. He mustered them with a curious look, but he said nothing.

A few of the villagers were in the mansion, ravaging everything in this huge house, so Tréville exercised his authority.

"Everyone, except for the musketeers, leave. Now!"

It took a few seconds for everyone to understand his words, but when he put on an angry face, suddenly everybody hurried to get the hell out of there.

Once they were alone, silence enveloped them for a few moments. Nobody said a word. D'Artagnan was nervously playing with his dagger, Porthos shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Athos' gaze wandered over Tréville and Aramis, obviously trying to work out what they had been talking about.

"It's good to see you alive, Aramis," d'Artagnan finally spoke up, offering a smile to his friend.

Aramis, who looked like he was barely holding up on his feet, stumbled over to d'Artagnan and Porthos, and laid a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"It feels good, too." He grinned weakly. "How are you feeling, Porthos?"

Porthos snorted, though his eyes were locked on Aramis, a worried tone in his gaze.

"I feel better than you look. What the hell did they do to your face?"

Aramis huffed a weak laughter.

"Oh, you know. An unfortunate incident with the fists of these brutes."

"You look horrible," Porthos stated bluntly, but he had a mischievous glistering in his eyes.

Aramis was amused.

"I'm still more handsome than you are."

Porthos gave a heart-warming, full-body laugh that resulted in a minor wince as it hurt his shoulder.

"How about we leave that to the ladies to decide?" he countered and grinned in provocation.

Aramis tilted his head backwards and chuckled, before his knees buckled and he sank to the ground, his body resting awkwardly against the wall.

Porthos froze in shock, and d'Artagnan jumped up in alert and rushed over to his friend. Athos barely moved.

Tréville also made a step forward, and watched as d'Artagnan weakly slapped Aramis on the good side of his face. Aramis' head was plastered in sweat, and he looked beyond exhausted. But he was awake and raised a placating hand.

"It's okay, d'Artagnan. I'm just exhausted."

D'Artagnan snorted.

"Yes, and you're bleeding. Your sleeve is soaked in blood in case you didn't notice."

Aramis' eyes followed those of d'Artagnan and he made a surprised sound.

"Oh. I almost forgot about that."

Tréville raised an eyebrow and he saw Athos rolling his eyes from his place by the door.

"What else hurts?" Porthos asked and leaned forward.

Aramis sighed. "My knee is the worst, I think. No idea what happened. But it'll get better. I just need time." He looked up, shaking his hair out of his face. "Anyone has some alcohol for my arm? I'd like to avoid an infection."

All eyes settled on Athos who grinned smugly and reached inside his doublet.

"Finally something I can help with," he said and handed a flask over to Aramis, who poured the liquid over his arm before dumping the rest into his throat.

"That was expensive brandy," Athos remarked dryly.

Aramis snorted. "My arm appreciates it."

Athos glared at him. "I hope your throat does too."

Aramis merely huffed a weak laughter before his head sank back against the morbid walls, his eyes still very much alert.

The uncomfortable silence returned, and Tréville had enough of it.

"If you four plan on putting me through something like the last days again, rest assured that the stables are going to need a lot of work then."

Porthos growled in exasperation, d'Artagnan just looked at the Captain with a look that told him he wasn't sure whether Tréville really meant it or not. Aramis glanced through half-open eyelids and saluted feebly.

Their friendly gathering was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Before Tréville could say anything, it was bust open, and Dorian de la Serre came in, accompanied by Claude and a young woman, approximately about eighteen years old, with long, dark hair and pale skin.

The woman was whispering something to the Baron, and he gently pushed her forward.

"Messieurs, this is my daughter, Giselle de la Serre."

Tréville noticed Aramis' head jerking up immediately, scanning the young woman with an interested stare.

Giselle shifted from one foot to another, before she finally raised her voice.

"I have to thank you, gentlemen," she said, and Tréville was sure to see tears glistening in her eyes. "You've done a great service to the village and its people, and I'm not scared anymore to put a foot out of my door."

The four musketeers offered her some generous smiles, and she stepped back into the awaiting embrace of her brother Claude.

"She is right," the Baron said. "I do not know what would've happened if you had not helped us. And I want you to know that I'm grateful; no matter what your duties to come are."

Tréville noticed d'Artagnan exchanging a skeptic look with Porthos, but Athos and Aramis already understood and bowed their heads to the Baron.

"We're glad we could help," Tréville stated, looking pityingly at the Baron.

"I don't blame you, Captain," the Baron replied with a sad face. "I only have myself to blame."

"You are a good man, Monsieur de la Serre," Tréville said flatly and approached the Baron, flanked by Athos. "A rare man to encounter among the aristocracy these days."

Claude bit his lip, holding his sister in a tight embrace.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, his voice had a begging tone in it.

Tréville scowled.

"It's not what I want, but it's what the law demands."

Claude hissed, anger written all over his face.

"Your conscientiousness will be the sword used to cut my father's head off," he snarled, but the Baron himself said nothing, a soft smile the only evidence of his emotions.  
Tréville sighed.

"Dorian de la Serre, you stand accused of kidnapping two musketeers of his majesty, the King. I hereby arrest you on his behalf. I'll need to you come back to Paris with me."


	15. The King's Justice

**Chapter 15: The King's justice**

The next day, they rode through the garrison's gates. Tréville and Athos formed the head of their little cortege, the Baron de la Serre, as their prisoner, was surrounded by the crowd of musketeers the Captain had brought with him from Paris. Aramis came last, Porthos on one side and d'Artagnan on the other.

Porthos' shoulder was looking fine so far, and the tall musketeer had insisted that it barely hurt anymore. Though he quickly had been rebutted as d'Artagnan accidentally had touched his shoulder and Porthos had almost broken his nose thanks to the pain it had caused.

Aramis knew he himself needed a few days to recover from everything that had happened the last few days. His face was getting better, and he could see better as well, but speaking still sent waves of pain through his jaw up to his cheek. It was truly a miracle that these brutes hadn't broken his nose when they had beaten him. His arm was bandaged and it really barely hurt, it had looked worse than it was, even though Porthos had needed a few hours of hovering over him and annoying Aramis until he had finally believed it.

His knee though troubled him more than he was willing to admit, and he was glad he was in the saddle right now. He feared the moment he'd have to dismount and put any weight on it.

With a weary face, he watched the slumped figure of the Baron de la Serre on his horse. After all that had happened, they had brought the wrong prisoner back to Paris. Aramis knew that it was his fault that de Terré wasn't here now, and he had finally realized, after having a long and thoughtful conversation with each of his comrades, including the Captain, that it had been the right thing to do.

But Athos was the only one who could comprehend the true relevance of the whole incident, since he was the only one who knew about the affair with the Queen. And if not only the rumor, but the message that the Queen had an affair with one of the King's musketeer had reached the court, things would've gone way differently. And Aramis was glad he had been able to prevent that.

But Dorian de la Serre was now going to be held accountable, and Aramis was a pretty good judge of character. The Baron would never deny it, he would try to justify his actions, and Aramis couldn't blame him.

The King for sure was going to be upset when he heard that the royal funds de Terré had received had been used to perform such horrific and disgusting crimes, and Tréville had secured the documents and the witnesses to prove it. So Aramis wasn't going to face any consequences for killing the Baron. But de la Serre was going to face a trial that would probably end up with him in the Bastille, suffering in prison because he wanted to protect what's his, including his own flesh and blood.

If that was the King's justice, Aramis didn't want it.

Their group came to a halt inside of the garrison's courtyard, and his musketeer-brothers jumped off their horses with elegance, hurrying to be done for the day.

He mentally prepared for the pain it was going to cause him to dismount, and he was fully aware of the looks Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos were giving him. He briefly closed his eyes and pulled one foot out of the saddle, putting some more weight on his injured left, but the movement alone made him swoon in the saddle and he blinked multiple times to clear his vision.

Athos approached wordlessly and offered his support by stretching out his arms to catch Aramis if needed.

"What?" Aramis rasped, not prepared to give in yet. "Worried that I might fall off my horse, Athos?"

Athos stayed motionless.

"I'd prefer not to drag you inside, so yes, if you could spare me the effort, I'd be very thankful."

Before Aramis was able to respond anything, a loud yell echoed over the courtyard and Constance, who appeared in the doorframe of the stables, came running out.

"D'Artagnan!" she exclaimed, while holding her skirts tightly in her hands as she made her way through the dirt towards the Gascon. She awkwardly came to a halt in front of the young musketeer, her hands twitching towards his face, but then she bit her lips nervously, her hands falling uselessly to her side.

"I'm so glad you are alright." Her voice was full of relief, and the love she felt for the young fellow was so evident it made Aramis sigh. He just really hoped they'd find their ways to each other one day.

"And you too," she spoke and turned towards the other three men. "I was so worried. I'm glad you are alive."

Porthos chuckled.

"You're not getting rid of us so easily."

She smiled, before she noticed Porthos' shoulder. She reverently approached the tall man, her hands reaching out but not touching the musketeer.

"You're injured," she stated, worry returning to her voice. "What on earth happened to you all?" She whirled around rapidly and faced d'Artagnan, who took a step back so he wouldn't get her waving hair in his face. "D'Artagnan! What. Happened?" Her tone tolerated no resistance.

D'Artagnan blinked in confusion, before he put a calming hand on her upper arm.

"It's a long story. Please, I will tell you later."

"Later?" she repeated her eyes wide in disbelief. "I almost lost my mind stuck here. You've been missing for days. Days, d'Artagnan."

He sighed.

"Yes, Constance, I know. But there are more urgent matters to be dealt with right now."

She nodded slowly, a sympathetic expression on her face.

"Come in first, have a drink. Whatever it is, it can be dealt with afterwards."

Her gaze wandered over Athos and finally came to rest on Aramis, who was still atop of his horse.

Constance's eyes examined him and she seemed to notice his trembling leg and the pain it caused him. She furrowed her brow when she saw the grotesque painting of bruises on his face and she made a step forward.

"I don't know what happened to you all, but you look like you really need to rest. Get off the horse, Aramis."

Porthos snorted.

"Yeah, that's kinda the problem."

Aramis rolled his eyes at Porthos, before he casted a glance down at Athos, who was still waiting with outstretched arms. Aramis swallowed hard as he prepared for the pain that was to come, his leg trembling even though he didn't move it right now.

Constance instantly realized what troubled him.

"For God's sake Aramis, stop trying to be heroic or tough for a second and accept some help given to you, will you?"

Though Aramis looked slightly puzzled, he nodded and saluted sarcastically.

"I could never turn down your wishes, Constance," he said and gave her a weak smile, before he quickly caught Athos' gaze to make sure the swordsman was prepared. Then, he finally swung his right leg over the horse's back, and as expected, his left one barely carried the weight. He felt Athos' hands steadying him from behind until he put his right foot on the ground, and Aramis' hands clawed on Athos' shoulder until he got his left one out of the saddle and safely onto the ground.

Athos kept a firm grip on his shoulder until Aramis stopped stumbling.

"Thank you, my friend," Aramis rasped and patted his shoulder in gratitude. Athos just nodded briefly.

Constance's eyes inspected each of them.

"Come in. You all need to rest."

Athos grumbled something incomprehensible and made a step backward.

"Seriously, Athos, she's right. We all need to calm down, and eat and drink something. Some sleep sounds good as well," d'Artagnan tried.

Athos just shook his head.

"No, there's something I need to get first," he responded, his gaze avoiding those of his comrades. Aramis sighed internally. The whole incident had taken a toll on Athos as well, even thought his friend would never admit it. He probably just wanted some distance. Athos has never been one to talk about what he was feeling. He liked to solve his problems through the bottom of a wine bottle.

Athos caught Aramis' gaze for a brief second, before he turned on his heel and headed towards the gates, taking one unsteady step after the other.

"Wait, Athos!" Porthos called and wanted to go after him, but Aramis stepped in his way.

"Don't. Leave him be."

"He's injured, restless. He should take some time before taking a walk!" Constance protested.

"He will. Just … let him do it his way."

Constance snorted. "Yes, 'cause his way is always so effective." She rolled his eyes. "Then come on, the rest of you, inside, now!"

She turned around and walked towards the door, followed by Porthos and d'Artagnan, but Aramis was frozen on the spot.

"You should really get some rest, Aramis. You can barely walk," d'Artagnan tried carefully.

"No," Aramis simply replied.

D'Artagnan looked truly annoyed. "What do you mean, 'no'? I swear, you and Athos, you are such stubborn idiots and I…" He stopped his ranting when Porthos elbowed him to the side, shaking his head slowly. D'Artagnan understood quickly.

"Thanks, d'Artagnan, I'll keep that in mind," Aramis retorted sarcastically with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"What else do you want to do then?" Porthos addressed his friend. "You can barely walk without help. You are certainly not going on an expedition across the city."

Aramis shook his head tiredly, his gloved hands clutching the pendant around his neck.

"There's something I need to do. I'll check in with you later, just…give me some time."

Porthos' eyes rested on Aramis' pendant, and he understood.

"You don't need to seek absolution for what happened at de Terré's," he said sincerely.

Aramis withstood his judging look. "It's not absolution I'm looking for."

"I'll come with you then. There's no way you can make it from here to there without help."

Aramis already took in a deep breath to protest, but he didn't have Constance's temper on his account.

"You're injured, Porthos. D'Artagnan, bring Porthos inside and make sure he stays there!" she ordered in a tone that tolerated no protest. Aramis almost had to laugh at the face d'Artagnan was making, a mixture between an angry musketeer and a frightened lover.

Constance quickly approached Aramis and hauled his arm around her shoulder.

"I'll come with you. I don't want to be responsible when you collapse somewhere on your way there."

"Constance, you really don't…" Aramis tried but she cut him off immediately.

"Don't. Try." She said menacingly but with a soft smile on her face. "I get what I want this time, Aramis. Come on."

So Athos went to the blacksmith to retrieve his dagger, and Aramis limped away with Constance towards a church.

**-MMMM-**

Aramis, with the help of Constance, had managed to limp towards the church. It was the very same church he had been attacked at only a few days prior, but it had a special meaning to him, and he was never going to let that be taken away from him.

He appreciated Constance's presence, but his intention had been to get some rest, and to be alone. He understood Athos' separating himself from the others too. Even though he would never admit it, but the swordsman was equally stressed out as the rest of them, and the whole incident had taken a toll on all of them.

As soon as they had entered the church, Aramis sat down in the second row. The church was completely empty. Constance too sat down next to him, but she left some space between them. She acknowledged his need for some privacy.

As he sat there, the events of the past couple of days started rewinding in his head, and all the emotion he had numbed until now came crushing down on him. He remembered the boy he had stabbed on the battlefield, the expression in the boy's eyes and the way it made him feel. It was a guilt, a disgust towards himself, that he never wanted to experience again. He remembered the satisfaction when de Terré tried to stab him in the back, giving Aramis a chance to eliminate the danger to himself and the Queen once and for all. The thoughts took over, and he subconsciously started shaking slightly.

"Aramis." Constance softly called out to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "What happened when you all were gone?" There was a hint of curiosity, but mostly concern in her voice.

"There was this Baron," Aramis explained tiredly and leaned forward. "He captured Athos and me and forced us to fight against innocent civilians, against our own musketeer brothers. He had prisoners who he threatened to kill, and he had some…" He gulped. "Personal leverage against me. Dangerous information. It all erupted in a battle, and I killed the said Baron."

Constance at first said nothing,

"Then what is bothering you, Aramis?" Constance stared at him in utter confusion.

"That I, for once, am told I did the right thing! That I am comforted, for killing a madman, praised that I saved all their lives, when in reality, I did it for myself. Because I was scared what would happen to me, and scared what would happen to…" He suddenly lowered his voice in haste."to her."

A moment of realization passed Constance's face, and Aramis remembered the moment in Emilie's Camp, where he was lucky it was only Constance who had witnessed the kiss between him and the Queen.

"I don't seek absolution, Constance," he explained tiredly. "All I'm searching is understanding. I know what I did, and I know what I did it for. I know my own morals, however I'm still frightened of how far I would go."

Constance took his hand into hers. "And you would do it all over again, wouldn't you?"

Aramis lowered his gaze, his face like stone. "Yes." He made a pause. "I'm not worried about what will happen to me. I always feared that one day, I might end up in chains for what I did. But to everyone else? What about Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan? The Captain?" He released a shaky breath. "Athos, who I burdened with a knowledge that could get him hanged. And it would be my fault."

Constance took a moment to think. "Your heart is in the right place Aramis. Don't beat yourself up over things you cannot change anymore. What is done, is done."

Aramis almost smiled. "I believe Athos used almost the same phrasing."

Constance squeezed his hand. "It is a dangerous secret. I would tell you to stay away from the Queen, but who am I to say so? Me, the woman who betrayed her marriage, her husband, who doesn't know about it to this day?"

Aramis looked up when he heard those words. "Did you ever feel guilty about it?"

She pressed her lips into a thin line, and shook her head. Aramis was sure to see tears in her eyes. "Love is a complicated matter," she stated mildly and quickly averted her gaze. "And it's hard not to justify things with love."

For a moment, they sat there in silence, until Constance raised her voice again. "Aramis, you are fine, your friends are fine. You prevented a potential catastrophe. What use is there in trying to change things that happened? Look on the path ahead, and use all your energy to protect those around you. That's what you always do, isn't it?"

He nodded slowly, and clasped his hands around his pendant before he started saying a short prayer.

"Amen." Constance did the same, and afterwards, offered him a helping hand to stand up again. Aramis complied, but there was one thing that was in the back of his mind, a thought, one that gave him comfort and scared him at the same time. The small, but not to be ignored possibility that de Terré did not know as much as he claimed to. He never voiced out aloud the suspicions or what he information he had against Aramis. The priest, the one who had showed Aramis what had happened to Adele, may not know as much as he thought.

And if that was the case, he may had to seek absolution after all.

**-MMMM-**

Only a few blocks away, Athos was seated at a table in a dark and small tavern. It was empty except for the barman, who was quietly cleaning the tables and throwing Athos irritated gazes every now and again.

Athos had a cup of wine, almost empty, in front of him, as well as the dark leathern scabbard with a freshly forged dagger in it to his right. His head was pounding like crazy, and the alcohol unfortunately hadn't brought him the numbness he had seeked. He was staring at the dirty, wooden table, which was soaked with a mixture of wine, blood and mud. Definitely not the most hygienic establishment in the city. But Athos had silence here, silence he desperately needed.

He knew neither d'Artagnan nor Porthos or Aramis were angry at him, however, he needed a moment to himself. Athos knew that for Aramis, the whole revelation about the Dauphin's true heritage and who else might know about it had him in its claws, and it was a burden that he carried with him every day. But Athos did too. Many times, he had voiced his anger out aloud, but with the time and with the Dauphin's birth, the anger was replaced by resignation and even pity for the situation of his brother.

But for Athos, the whole incident at de la Serre's and his own captivity at the Baron de Terré's estate carried a different meaning. He had not been extorted with potential information about him – there were none crucial in relations to the palace anyway. He was fully convinced that he did the right thing on the battlefield, but he was still in shock about what would have happened if d'Artagnan and Porthos hadn't been at de la Serre's. He quite possibly would have died on the battlefield, and everyone would have thought he would have died side by side with men lacking honor and pride, in the quest to conquer an innocent's Baron's land.

It would have been his worst nightmare. He was extremely relieved that d'Artagnan and Porthos had been there, however, the images of the innocent, and scared people who he had lifted his sword against, were haunting him, and a wave of guilt overcame him everytime he remembered it.

In his life, he had been willing to sacrifice a lot of things. His estate, his reputation and most importantly, his love. All in the sense of duty and above all, honour, something he had maintained and treasured ever since he had joined the musketeers. But even that, he had to put on trial.

And it angered him. And Athos eventually realised that despite the fact that the Baron de Terré was dead, he wasn't satisfied. Because their duty was to arrest the Baron de la Serre, because the wrong person would be charged with treason.

He had always thought that his number one priority was his duty. But the hunger for justice had awoken in him, and partnered with his anger, who knew what was to come.

**-MMMM-**

The afternoon, they were all assembled in Tréville's office. The Captain was behind his desk, the four musketeers, including a grim-looking Athos and a tired looking Aramis, surrounded him and all of them faced the two brothers that had furiously entered Tréville's office a few minutes earlier. Isko and Gustav, who had come to Paris in order to accompany the Baron de la Serre, probably on the order of Claude, looked as if they wanted to break everything within this room.

"So that is justice, yes? You're just going to stand by and watch de la Serre being locked together with this huge amount of criminal scum you hunt down as musketeers, yes?"

"Which you are very welcome for," d'Artagnan mumbled, a little offended.

It was Aramis who made an unsteady step forward, his hands now resting on the Captain's desk, facing his superior with an unusual calmness.

"When I joined the regiment, you told me that the world is not fair. That there would be no justice, not unless we make it. That's why I dedicated my life to the musketeers." Aramis' voice had that tone in it, one he often used when addressing Tréville over something that didn't sit right with him. Controlled anger tinged with criticism, but covered with the respectful and obeying voice a musketeer had to use while speaking with his Captain.

"King and country, glory and praise are all nice things, but that's not what lets me sleep at night," Porthos interjected, his face plainly serious.

"It's up to you to decide our next steps, Sir," Athos added tonelessly, his face emphasizing no emotions.

Tréville glared at them all, before he rose from his chair, his fists clenched tightly. His eyes threw daggers at each one of them.

"I don't know what you are going to do," he said, his eyes landing on Gustav and Isko, "but I, for my part, am done with it. The musketeers did their duty, and the King has spoken. So I'm going to do my duty now. I'm going to the palace, and bring my musketeers, and we are going to welcome the English representative as we always do in the parades." He slowly leaned forward and rested his hands on his desk.

"I'll be there to make sure my musketeers are there," he added and threw an intense glare towards Aramis and Porthos. "And the Baron de la Serre, or his transportation to the Bastille from the Sorbonne are no longer my business, gentlemen." He raised an eyebrow and turned towards Athos. "It is said they even want to use the Pont Marie for the transportation." He shook his head in faked disbelief.

Athos tilted his head, Aramis and Porthos couldn't hide a smug grin. D'Artagnan cleared his throat very intensely before throwing intense glares into the brother's directions. The two giants exchanged a quick look, and Athos knew they had understood. The Pont Marie hadn't been released for public traffic yet. When somebody attacked the transport of de la Serre there, it wouldn't draw a lot of attention. Tréville denied them his help, but he had given them all he needed.

Gustav put a fist on his chest and bowed slightly.

"Anyway, thank you for your effort, Captain. Have a nice day."

They both nodded their heads gratefully, casting last, meaningful glances back at the assembled musketeers before they left Tréville's office.


	16. The Choice

**Chapter 16: The Choice**

The sun was beginning to set, and it bathed the sky in its orange light. It was still very warm, and the air was sticky in the Louvre's gardens. D'Artagnan impatiently shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and had to take in more than one piercing glare from Tréville, who was standing close to the King.

They had arrived at the palace about half an hour ago. Tréville had been resistant about taking Aramis, d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos with him, however, it had been clear that the King had insisted. And Aramis and Porthos had declared they were fine, though Porthos' holey shoulder and Aramis' bad limp and bruised face told a different story.

Athos on the other hand had disappeared shortly after Isko's and Gustav's visit to Tréville's office, and none of them had seen him ever since. It was not like Athos to miss his duty, no matter the circumstances.

However, Tréville seemed to be informed. He had briefly apologized for Athos' absence, but Louis had barely noticed it. The King had asked why the uniforms of three of his musketeers were dirty and stained with blood, and d'Artagnan could've sworn there was at least some concern in his voice, but the Captain had merely shrugged it off and promised his majesty to fill him in later with a report.

The Queen on the other hand had been eyeing them all skeptically, clearly trying to figure out the story behind it. D'Artagnan knew she wouldn't ask, at least not in front of her husband, but the concern she showed was a lot more sincere than the King's. Ever since Tréville had refused the position the King wanted to give to him, Louis had been acting coldly towards the entire regiment.

They were assembled here for two reasons: one was the welcoming of the English representative in Paris, an event Louis had been planning for over a month. There was a festivity planned for later in the evening, but luckily, Tréville had relieved a few of his musketeers from the duty. Which had resulted in a snarky remark from the Comte de Rochefort, but d'Artagnan couldn't care less.

The second event was the presenting of the Baron de la Serre to the King. All the King knew so far was that the Baron de la Serre was responsible for the kidnapping of some of his soldiers. Nothing more, nothing less. The Captain was expecting to brief him about the circumstances after the welcoming of the English representative.

D'Artagnan got pulled out of his thoughts when Rochefort raised his voice. The Comte was standing on the King's right side, Tréville stood at the Queen's side.

„The English have never proven their punctuality," Rochefort sneered, and the Captain sent him a look that spoke volumes.

„Sire, we are patient men. We can wait for a few more minutes."

The King nodded stiffly and shifted on his chair. As if that was a signal, the Guards of the gardens gave Tréville a signal.

„Attention!" the Captain bellowed, and all the musketeers aligned on the left and right side of the path stood at attention, their gazes stubbornly looking into the distance. It wasn't their most pompeous parade, but judging by the amount of red guards and musketeers that were assembled, it was evident that the King wanted to leave an impression on the English representative.

D'Artagnan sent a quick look towards Porthos and Aramis. Despite their best efforts to not show any signs of injuries, it was obvious. Aramis leaned onto his good leg, and even the hat pulled down so far couldn't hide the bruising all over his face. Porthos was rather pale from the blood-loss, and he was cradling his injured arm towards his chest.

The procedure that followed was formal and boring. The King, with his best faked smile, welcomed the English representative and they exchanged all kinds of formal and polite paroles. The Queen offered her best, gracious smile and Rochefort remained a consistent and endangering presence at the King's side, trying to outshine Captain Tréville so obviously it was almost laughable.

Tréville kept a straight face throughout the whole scene, and eventually invited Rochefort to accompany the English representative inside the palace. Rochefort was hesitant to do so, but as soon as the Queen intervened and kindly asked the minister to do so, the snarky remark died on the Comte's lips and he walked the ambassador through the gardens towards the palace.

The King now sat down again, his fingers nervously drumming on the chair. „Captain, I need to know more if I'm supposed to face this Baron de la Ferre."

Tréville stepped forward and bowed his head. „De la Serre, Sire. He was involved in a dispute with the Baron de Terré, who was killed yesterday. You'll receive a detailed report about it this evening." He cleared his throat and wanted to continue, but the King intervened.

„So, de la Serre is charged with murder?"

„No, your majesty," the Captain hastily corrected himself. „He stands accused of kidnapping two of my musketeers from Paris to support his personal crusade. The Baron de Terré was killed in battle."

The King nodded knowingly and straightened up. „I see. I expect a full briefing as soon as possible, Captain."

Tréville bowed his head. „Of course." He furrowed his brow. „They were supposed to be here ten minutes ago, Sire. I do not know why they are delayed."

D'Artagnan worked hard on the indifferent expression on his face. He could feel Porthos next to him shifting the weight from one foot to the other, clearly in anticipation of what was to come. Aramis slightly lifted his head and freed his face from the shadows his hat cast.

The sound of hooves trampling over dust was the first indication of visitors, however, it was not the carriage containing the Baron that entered the palace's gardens. A single horse, a large friesian, trotted through the entrance of the gardens. D'Artagnan would recognize its rider anywhere.

The Gascon had his suspicions of what had happened, but he didn't show any signs of emotions.

The King didn't relieve the Red Guards or the musketeers. It was clearly a demonstration of power, something the King liked to do whenever nobility visited. He relied on their support, but he needed to show who was in charge.

The rider approached quickly, and Athos brought the horse to a halt in front of the line of musketeers, the stallion neighing in protest, his shining fur and the foam around its mouth told d'Artagnan that Athos had urged his horse to its limits in order to get to the palace as quickly as possible.

Athos too was still in his dirty and blood-stained uniform, his hair falling into his eyes and his face was marred with dust. D'Artagnan noticed a small trail of blood on the swordsman's shoulder, probably not his own, but definitely new. The appearance of a man who had just left a battle.

He pulled on the reins and forced the animal to face sideways, so he could lean over its neck and look into the Captain's and the King's eyes.

"The carriage has been attacked, Captain," he reported with a calmness only Athos was capable of. He then turned and bowed his head to the King. "Sire, Dorian de la Serre has been ambushed and killed at Pont Marie."

"Killed?" Louis repeated and mild shock spread all over his face. Well, shock and disappointment, if d'Artagnan saw that right. "How did that happen?"

Athos put on a face of pure innocence. "I was accompanying the carriage with two red guards. Two masked men attacked us when we passed over Pont Marie. The Baron tried to escape, and while embroiled in a battle with one of the guards, he was severely injured and thrown off the bridge." He lowered his gaze. "The attackers were able to flee."

"Flee?" The King repeated again, and his voice was at least two octaves higher in its indignation. "You let them escape?"

"No, Sire," Athos answered calmly. "I was handicapped by the injuries I sustained during my stay at the Baron de Terré, and I tried to save the guards. It was an unfortunate incident." Those were the most diplomatic words Athos seemed to come up with.

Louis, obviously too proud to admit that he still did not know what the feud between the Barons had been about, straightened up, the Queen now standing by his side. "And, is there anyone to confirm what you just said?"

"Your majesty," Tréville interfered, clearly surprised that the King questioned the musketeer's honesty, but Louis silenced him with a raised hand.

Athos hesitated. "One of the red guards survived. I'm sure he'll be able to confirm my story."

Louis' lips quivered, but he managed a stiff nod. "Very well." He turned towards Tréville. "Captain, you will find these attackers. I believe the trial for the Baron is no longer necessary. Find these criminals, and I expect you at my side in two hours for the celebration."

The captain bowed his head. "As you wish, Sire."

Clearly contented with his own authority, Louis dismissed Athos with a wink of his hand and offered his other arm to his wife, before they headed towards the palace together. The Captain stared at Athos for a short while, and gave him the orders he did not need to speak out aloud.

With a flick of his wrist, he ordered the rest of the musketeer regiment to accompany him, and Athos, d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos were dismissed.

Athos quickly dismounted and turned towards his friends, who greeted him with worried faces.

"Are you alright?" Aramis dared to ask.

Athos nodded.

„You smell like alcohol," the Gascon commented dryly, but elicited no reaction out of his friend. None.

"Tell me, my friend," Porthos began and lowered his voice, while d'Artagnan draped Aramis' arm around his shoulder to help him keep up with the others. "What about the one red guard that could testify against you?"

Athos grunted. "There's no red guard left to tell what truly happened. I'll fill you in later. I suspect the King gave us orders we need to fulfill."

"So, you actually plan on going after them?" D'Artagnan couldn't hide his surprise. He was certain they were talking about Isko and Gustav here.

Athos slowed his pace as he noticed d'Artagnan and Aramis not keeping up, and managed a smug grin.

"I don't have to go after them. I know where to find them."

**-MMMM-**

__

_Midnight, outside of Paris_

The moon was clouded, and only the only thing that enlightened the place was the faint light of unclouded stars, leaving the scene in almost complete darkness.

Four horses were tied to a rod, grazing peacefully next to a bridge. The water of the small river was brushing softly against the wet rocks, and a cat was carefully making its way through the undergrowth.

The four musketeers were assembled on the river's shore. Aramis was seated on a larger rock, Porthos casually leaned against it too. Athos was staring at the water's surface, with his hands neatly folded behind his back, lost in his own thoughts. D'Artagnan was pacing restlessly.

"You know, next time when you pull off something like that, it'd be nice to be informed," d'Artagnan stated into Athos' direction, referring to the fact that the swordsman had gone through a rescue attempt for the Baron alone, while the others had been stuck at the parade.

"It would have drawn too much attention," Athos responded, not diverting his gaze from the water.

"No, actually," Aramis began and leaned forward. "The boy is right. It would be really nice to know next time when you do something like that."

"I suspected you knew what I was going to do. What had to be done," Athos countered, finally turning to look at his comrades. "It was a well-structured and thought-through decision."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. He was having none of it. "It was impulsive," he corrected his friend, but he grinned. "It's okay, Athos. Aramis and I have a bet going on when you would first admit to an impulsive decision. It happens to all of us."

Aramis looked to Porthos. "Seems like I owe you a livre."

"By the way, Athos, what were you thinking when lying to the King about the red guard?" d'Artagnan drew the attention back to the more urgent matters. "He's going to expect someone to confirm your story."

Aramis snorted in disgust. "Rochefort doesn't know his own men. We could put anyone into a Red guard's uniform and have him confirm Athos' statement. He would buy it, as long as the uniform is red."

Athos nodded. "My thoughts exactly. D'Artagnan, I want you to take care of that in the morning. It doesn't matter who you pick, just make sure it's a face Rochefort hasn't seen before."

D'Artagnan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Won't be that hard. He doesn't leave the palace very often at the moment." He sighed. "Porthos, could you advice me tomorrow?"

The tall musketeer grunted affirmatively. Tréville had put all of them, except for d'Artagnan, on light duty for the next five days, so they weren't able to plan anything obvious, as they were under constant watch in the garrison.

Suddenly, they heard the mild snorting of animals, and three riders approached their destination, two giant, broad figures and one smaller, but confident person in the middle. They all brought their horses to a stop in front of the musketeers.

The brothers Gustav and Isko stayed atop of their horses, but the shorter man dismounted carefully and stepped into the dim light.

Dorian de la Serre. He looked a bit battered, but he was alive.

"Gentlemen." He nodded as a greeting. "I suspect I don't have to express my sincere gratitude. You went behind your King's and your Captain's back. I don't take that for granted." His eyes rested on Athos.

Aramis cleared his throat, and his voice almost had an annoyed tone in it. „Tréville always says it's better if he doesn't know. So, he doesn't, but in fact, we all know he is aware of what we're doing. Some might even say he approves of it."

D'Artagnan made a step forward now. "The official version says you have been killed on Pont Marie."

De la Serre smiled. "Thank you."

„You know that you probably wouldn't have ended up in prison for long, right? The King is in need of money, and Rochefort too needs the money for..." Porthos swallowed nervously. „state affairs." He couldn't voice out aloud how he always suspected the Comte de Rochefort plotting against the kingdom.

The Baron sighed. „Yes, I am aware. However, the ongoing feud with de Terré has drained my financial resources. I have barely enough to get my people through the winter. If I am considered a renegade, there's a slight chance that the King will not transfer the fine to my son." He smiled. „Claude is the Baron de la Serre now, and he is capable. My estate is in good hands."

Aramis scratched his head. "Well, it is your choice. I don't have to agree with how you choose to go on with your life. I'm just saying there would have been other solutions as well. Less…" he made a wide gesture with his hand…"inconvenient ones."

"I know, Monsieur Aramis. But this is the choice I made. And I thank you for your help. Thanks to you, my family will be left alone and can finally start a new life in peace."

Aramis had a soft expression on his face, but his voice was distant. "I did not do it for you."

Athos raised an eyebrow, ignored Aramis' statement and looked at the Baron. „Do you have a place to stay?"

Dorian nodded. „Christine was against it, but I have a cousin who owns some land down near the Mediterranean sea. I'm sure he'll take me in." He tilted his head towards one of the brothers. "Gustav will take me there. Isko will return to my estate and support my son." He smiled. "And his own of course. Too many people had to suffer under de Terré." He sent Aramis an apologetic look.

"One thing," Porthos explained and made a step forward. "The King wants the attackers of the carriage. We would need two men to present to him as such."

Aramis grimaced. "He hasn't specified though whether he wants them dead or alive."

Isko brought his horse a little forward and bent over the animal's neck. "There are some of de Terré's masked henchmen who died in the battle on his estate. I could arrange having them transported to you as soon as possible."

Athos hooked his hand onto his weapon belt. "That would be worth a try, I believe." He gave Isko a thankful nod. "Have it arranged as soon as possible."

"Will any of you face punishment for his involvement in this affair? Or for his involvement in my apparent death?" The Baron seemed genuinely concerned, and d'Artagnan found a spark of sympathy enlighten for the nobleman.

"The relationship between the King and the regiment is strained already," Aramis admitted. "It'll pass. Leave that to us."

"Athos can be quite convincing," d'Artagnan added with a side-glance to said musketeer, and de la Serre chuckled.

"Yes, I bet." He lifted his hat. "Messieurs, my deepest gratitude and my sincere apologies. For the sake of all of us, I hope our path's never cross again."

Athos just nodded, Aramis and Porthos replied with a similar note and d'Artagnan just shook the man's hand. "Stay safe. Don't make us regret it."

De la Serre showed a thin smile and mounted his horse again. Without casting one last glance back, he dug his heels into the horses' flanks and galloped down the path, Gustav by his side. Isko on the other hand crossed the bridge, and made his way back to the Baron's estate.

"You think he's going to tell Claude the truth about his father's fate?" Porthos asked, his eyes locked on the distant figure of Isko.

Aramis shrugged. "To be honest, Claude de la Serre is not my top priority at the moment."

Porthos nodded. "True." He hesitated for a moment, before he continued. "I think this is one of the first times we actually didn't fight in the name of Louis, but in the name of ourselves. This was about us, not about France."

It was only a split second, but d'Artagnan noticed Aramis and Athos exchanging a brief and strange look. He didn't dare to ask.

"And we survived. Now, we deserve to get some rest." With those words, Aramis carefully put his good foot in the stirrup and lifted himself back on his horse. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan followed his example.

„So, which one of us is the poor soul that has to give the full report to the Captain?" d'Artagnan asked matter-of-factly and grasped the reins of the horse even tighter.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. „Always the one who asks. Or the youngest. In this case, both applies to you. We," and he indicated Athos, Porthos and himself, "have important matters to attend to."

D'Artagnan snorted. „Yeah, right. You're going to sleep until noon, aren't you?" He especially eyed Porthos and Aramis.

Aramis nodded vigorously. „As I said. Important matters."

D'Artagnan made a face. The written report was something nobody liked to do. And facing the Captain with the full story wasn't either. „What happened to all for one, if I may ask?" he demanded to know teasingly.

„Sorry whelp," Porthos argued and exchanged an amused look with his brothers. „But in this case, you're on your own."

Porthos and d'Artagnan laughed, Aramis managed a smirk and even Athos hinted something like a grin, despite his eye roll.

And side by side, they disappeared into the night, their shadows becoming one with the darkness.

**-The End-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this story. Thank you to everyone who stayed with me, and thank you all for reading! 
> 
> I'll be back with a new, long-term project by the end of October. It'll be a pre-series war story. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and thank you for your comments!


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